


Pull Hard and Make a Wish

by coricomile



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Underage Drinking, Unsafe Sex, Van Days
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-09
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-19 10:19:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4742654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Right.” Patrick shakes his head, tugging his hat back in place. When he looks up, his face is still red, his mouth in a thin line. There’s a pine needle sticking to his cheek, sticky with sap and sweat. “I’m the only dude you know that’ll suck you off, right? Is that it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Hard and Make a Wish

The first time Pete fucked a guy, the first actual time he stuck his dick in someone’s ass, saw heavy, dark balls next to his, he was sixteen. He had his dress greens on and their belt buckles clanked together behind the barracks as they scrambled to finish before graduation ceremony started.

The kid—Ray, Greg, something—had yanked Pete back and said, “No one’ll know.” He’d said, “It’s been a long fucking time since we’ve seen girls.”

And it had sounded right to Pete, had made enough sense to keep Pete from punching him in the mouth. So, Ray or Greg or whoever had fisted him through his slacks until Pete got over the fact that it was a dude’s hand and got hard. And then he’d bent over and opened himself up like a fucking present, like someone who knew a lot more about it than he should.

It was kind of gross—the facts unavoidable, the thought of what he was doing making it hard to keep it up—but Greg or Ray was tight and didn’t bitch when Pete fucked him harder, faster. Didn’t bitch when he grabbed a handful of dark hair and yanked. Didn’t bitch when Pete got off on his ass first, come sinking into his boxers.

After Pete walked across the stage, his stupid boot camp signed off as something he did one summer and half, Greg or Ray or whatever tried to hand him a phone number. Pete got sick in the car on the way home. He threw the slip of paper into the mess on the floor and watched it get ruined with his own bile.

Twenty-one is a long way from sixteen, but Pete still wakes up sometimes with the taste of vomit in his mouth, half hard in his boxers. Those nights—those nights are the ones he hates himself the most.

\---

Pete is drunk. Ish. Drunk-ish. He’s had three shots and enough beers to get him to this happy, tipsy place where the world spins a little faster than it usually does. Chris laughs at him, shoving another glass of whatever’s on draft at him, and Pete knocks it back like a pro.

Semester just ended and Pete’s free for the summer, off to play shows and get over his on-again-off-again girlfriend and to finally do something away from the bullshit world of politics and law and school. He laughs to the music, raises his cup and dances like an idiot. Life is good to him.

They get kicked out of the bar early. Pete almost decks the manager on principle, but Chris drags him out by the elbow before he can do any damage. The sky is dark but there are still people on the street, dressed to the nines and as drunk and happy as Pete.

Chris drags them to the nearest club and Pete goes with it. He’s never heard of the place, can’t even read the neon sign when he tries, but Chris says he’s heard good things about it and Pete’s just desperate enough to go with it.

There’s no line outside the door, which is great because Pete’s not actively cold, but he can see his breath. His fingertips are past the point of drunk numb, quickly falling into frostbite territory. He trips over the curb and his asshole friends laugh and laugh and laugh because they’re assholes.

There’s a kid huddled against the wall, hands cupped over his face, breath pouring out like smoke between his fingers. He’s small, too young to be here, but Pete instantly likes him for the simple fact that he at least tried. He’s all for the delinquency of minors.

“Hey,” Pete calls to him as they’re stepping past the bouncer. “John, let’s go!”

The kid blinks at him, eyes big and blue under the messy fringe of his short bangs. Pete waves a hand and motions inside to where it’s warm. His fingers tingle as the heat sinks into them. He can feel himself starting the slide back into sobriety and that’s not a part of the plan. He waves at the kid again.

“Chris has your ID, asshole,” Pete shouts before turning toward the bouncer. “He’s drunker than I am, dude.”

Pete shrugs, like it’s no big deal. Fake it until you make it, a life motto that’s gotten him through a lot. The bouncer nods, grinning like he’s in on the joke. His balls have to be so far up his body that they’re turning into ovaries. The kid seems to get it finally and hurries in, popping under Pete’s arm and into the club.

“My name isn’t John,” the boy shouts when they’re a safe distance away from the bouncer. In the flashing red and blue and green lights, Pete can see his freckles. They’re small and kind of orange, like a constellation over his face.

“No, really?” Pete says, voice thick with sarcasm. “I had no idea.” When the kid recoils, Pete sighs. “I’m Pete.” He offers his hand, and the boy takes it hesitantly.

“Patrick,” he replies.

“Awesome.” Pete slings an arm over Patrick’s shoulders and steers him towards the bar. “Now, I had an awesome buzz going, and since I got you in? You should buy us a shot. Sound like a good plan?”

“Sure,” Patrick says slowly. He stumbles along beside him, dragged down by Pete’s weight, only hesitating a little as he’s pulled along. “Are you sure they’re not going to card me?”

“Yes.” Pete pats his cheek and draws to a halt in front of the bar, smiling at the pretty blonde bartender. Patrick bounces off of him, hanging close like a lost duckling. “Two double shots of Black Velvet.”

When she bends to grab the bottle, Pete can see down her shirt, can make out the pale tops of her breasts all the way to the cups of her bra. It’s awesome. Patrick pays and stares into his shot glass with trepidation. He really is young. Pete knocks their glasses together.

“Drink up,” he says. “Count of three. One, two—” They knock their glasses back, and Pete waits until Patrick’s done coughing to laugh. “Good stuff, right? Let’s do it again.”

After the third shot, Patrick’s face goes a funny shade of pink, and he starts to sag heavy and warm against Pete, laughing too loud and offering to buy just one more. Pete has never been one to turn down free liquor, so he sticks close and takes what he’s given with grace, hands clumsy as he tries to bring the glass to his mouth.

He doesn’t see Chris or Tim or Zack anywhere. He figures they probably left him because they’re dicks. It’s fine; the kid’s kind of cool, even when he’s not pouring booze straight into Pete’s belly. He’s sixteen and has never actually gotten into a bar. He loves Prince and wants to be in a band that does something other than fuck around in the garage so bad it hurts. When Pete mentions his band offhandedly, Patrick’s eyes go wide and his mouth falls open.

“Oh, oh, you’re Pete _Wentz_?” He blinks, big, sweeping movements of his eyelids, and then grins when Pete nods. “Wow. That’s—that’s really awesome. I go to a lot of your shows.”

And, hey, Pete loves that he has fans. Fans are awesome. The fact that this fan is a baby with a growing drinking problem is no deterrent. Pete buys the next round and crashes his glass into Patrick’s so hard it nearly shatters.

Time goes weird, a blur of Patrick talking and Pete nodding, and drinks that neither one of them buy adding on to the ones they do. By time the bar closes, Patrick looks a little green around the edges and Pete feels like he’s walking on a treadmill, the Earth not cooperating with him at all. His sneakers drag the ground, bright and puke green under the streetlights.

He trips over the same curb, but Patrick catches him before he faceplants. Pete’s nose gets smashed up against Patrick’s shoulder, his ribs crushed a little by the way he’s being held onto too tightly. It’s the funniest thing ever. He can’t stop laughing, his chest aching with it. Patrick’s laughing right along with him, face scrunched up and hat on sideways, breathless. And Pete… Pete...

Pete kisses him.

They stumble into the closest alley, crashing into a dumpster hard enough to make it shake. Patrick’s mouth is wet and too open. He’s too young to have stubble so he kind of feels like a girl, all soft skin and wandering hands. Pete bites at his mouth—at his full, thick mouth—and Patrick’s groan tastes like whiskey.

Somewhere between Pete’s hand in Patrick’s back pocket and Patrick’s tongue in Pete’s mouth, Pete feels his dick swell. Between the meds and the booze he probably shouldn’t have had, he’s surprised he can get it up at all.

“Let me,” Patrick mumbles and falls down to his knees, clumsy and too fast.

He’ll probably be torn up and sore later, but Pete doesn’t actually care. Patrick’s wobbly fingers are fighting with the button of his jeans, knuckles brushing up against him in a way that makes Pete’s head feel light. It’s been too long since he’s gotten head. Patrick mouths him through his underwear, wet and dirty, and Pete leans against the side of the dumpster because his legs are weak. If he falls, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get up.

It’s too fucking cold for this. Pete nearly loses his hard on when the winter air hits his dick, but Patrick stuffs it into his mouth like it’s fucking candy, goes to town on him like he can’t get enough. It’s sloppy and a little loose, but his tongue’s doing some great things to make up for it. Pete has to fist a hand into Patrick’s hair. He knocks his hat off and just digs in. His skin is so dark in the red tangle of it, fingertips curled in and tugging unevenly.

Patrick whines, pulls off of him with a pop. He yanks at Pete’s jeans and leans in. Pete’s wet dick slaps against his cheek as he sucks at Pete’s balls, runs his tongue over the seam and pops one and then the other between his lips like they’re cherries. Pete jerks his hips, taps his cock against Patrick’s jaw for the sound it makes. It leaves a wet smear on Patrick’s round, pale cheek that shines when he turns his head.

When Patrick wraps his mouth around the head of Pete’s dick again, Pete thrusts up to meet it. He goes in too far, feels Patrick gag, and god if that doesn’t get him off. He comes against Patrick’s mouth, thick globs of white against the red of his lips, and fuck. Fuck. Patrick shoves a hand into his own jeans and jerks himself off, works his wrist quick and dirty, mouth wet and open against Pete’s stomach. Pete can feel his moan vibrating against his skin.

After, Pete does up his jeans and hauls Patrick to his feet. He scrubs at Patrick’s mouth with the cuff of his hoodie sleeve, making it turn whore red. Patrick laughs against it, bright eyes and pink cheeks and pants that are damp in the front.

“’m a fucking groupie,” he says blurrily. It’s goddamn hilarious. Pete is still laughing as he hails a cab.

“Is someone going to miss you tonight?” he asks.

“No,” Patrick answers. He tumbles into the back seat like a weed, pliant and twitchy and drunker than even Pete.

Pete slurs the directions to the cabbie, fights his nausea as the car jerks off down the road. Patrick’s fucking handsy. He’s got his fingers curled on the inside of Pete’s thigh, trying to kiss Pete and missing, laughing because there’s nothing else he can do.

Pete overpays the cabbie, but he can’t really see straight to count out the right amount anyway. He knocks into the neighbor's garbage cans and nearly falls into the bushes, Patrick too heavy at his back as Pete tries to make his clumsy feet work, but he gets the door open and they stumble in, too loud.

He drags Patrick to his room, throws him onto the bed and doesn’t turn on the light. He can feel him in the dark, squirming and anxious and getting hard in his jeans again. Pete fucks him in his clothes, Patrick’s bare ass white in the dark, framed by his jeans and his jacket, and passes out before he can pull his soft dick out again.

\---

There is a hatchet buried deep into the back of Pete’s skull, cleaving his brain into two throbbing, aching halves. His mouth tastes like sand, dry and hot and sticky. When he tries to open his eyes they stick together, gummy with sleep. There’s something warm and solid next to him, the scratch of someone else’s clothes on Pete’s bare shins.

He tries to remember who he brought home, but thinking makes his skull throb. All he can remember is a blur of Black Velvet and blue eyes under flashing lights, blurry in the back of his head. Pete groans and pushes his face into his pillow where there’s no light to make his eyes sting. How smashed did he get last night? He remembers changing bars, remembers laughing until he’d felt like he was going to puke. His stomach revolts as he tries to get back to sleep.

Some hazy time later, he feels the mysterious someone’s hand on his stomach, chewed nails catching on the trail of hair that leads into his boxers. The fingers are kind of rough, kind of big, and Pete wonders if Chris let him go home with a dog. It wouldn’t be the first time. His friends are assholes and he’s got a pair of coke bottle thick beer goggles that they make fun of him for as often as they can.

Still, a morning handjob is a morning handjob, and Pete’s not going to open his eyes anytime in the next week, so. He might as well try to enjoy it.

The hand wraps around Pete’s dick, fingertips pressing to the place where the shaft meets the soft skin of his balls. Pete groans again. It’s good, and his dick is still a little slick, which means he totally got all the way last night. The chick really knows how to work cock. Ugly girls are always better in the sack, something  
Pete’s always quick to point out to his dickbag friends.

Pete feels lips against his jaw and he turns his head away from it. He’s pretty sure he didn’t puke last night but he has no idea about the girl. He doesn’t want the fresh taste of vomit in his mouth this early in the morning. His stomach is still rumbling, leftover nausea eating at his insides. Too many shots, not enough food.

He gets off fast. It’s not the best handjob he’s ever had, but it’s pretty close. He’s debating if he should return the favor, if he’s even coordinated enough to find her cunt let alone do anything useful to it, when he feels the mouth on his throat again. There’s a sore spot, which means a hickey. Great. Just what he needs.

“I think I lost my pants,” the person next to him says. Pete freezes.

He manages to pop his eyes open, heart hammering against his ribs. His chest squeezes in on his lungs as he sees those blue, blue eyes again, set into a very, very masculine face. The boy, Patrick, Pete remembers with a twist in his gut, smiles. He bites his lip and shrugs, the picture of boyish innocence.

“Guess I’ll have to stay in bed,” he says sweetly. He’s reaching for Pete again, big hands with ragged nails and soft mouth and dick visibly hard under the sheets.

Pete feels sick.

“Get out,” he rasps, throat raw and shutting in around his breath.

Patrick frowns, hands paused between them. Oh, god. Oh, god. Patrick keeps reaching for him, eyebrows drawn together. Pete knocks his hand away violently. His head is swimming and he can taste bile finally making its way up the back of his throat.

“Pete?” Patrick asks. He looks confused, a lost fucking kid in Pete’s bed, waiting for reassurance. Pete wants to punch him, wants to knock him flat and hurt him until he bleeds, until he forgets what happened.

“Get the fuck out,” Pete says again, louder.

He sees Patrick’s adam's apple bob, sees the way his jaw goes stiff. He doesn’t fucking care. He doesn’t fucking give a goddamn about this weird little fuck.

Patrick tumbles out of the bed, knees cracking on the hardwood floor. His pants are in a tangle at the end of the mattress, stuffed half under the covers and half on top of Pete’s legs. Pete kicks at them, hears the heavy buckle of the belt smack against the floor. It’s almost satisfying the way Patrick goes red as he bends to pick them up.

And Jesus, Pete couldn’t have even accidentally picked up an attractive guy. Patrick’s thick in the middle, the round bump of his stomach pressed to his t-shirt, red hair almost in knots from sleep. His face is just as round, pointed little chin wobbling. There’s a line of zits at the edge of his jaw, right above a vicious bruise that probably matches the shape of Pete’s mouth.

Patrick yanks his pants on ungracefully and stumbles across the room for his shoes. He’s shaking, hands faltering as he tries to tie the laces. Pete wants to spit on him, can feel the urge crawling up ugly and nasty from his spine.

“Can you at least give me a ride home?” Patrick eventually asks, not looking away from his shoes. His face is red and his fists are clenched at his sides. Pete throws a pillow at him.

“Get _out_ ,” he shouts. If the little cocksucker doesn’t get out of his room in the next ten seconds, Pete’s going to beat him black and blue. “Get the fuck out and don’t come back.”

Patrick gets the fuck out. Pete hears the door slam downstairs, the sound hurting his swollen brain. He clutches his head, yanks at his hair as he tries to breathe. His stomach is in knots, bile climbing up the back of his throat. There’s a phantom flash of Ray or Greg or whoever behind his eyelids, and Pete has to crawl to the bathroom and lay his head against the cold porcelain of the toilet. He wants to puke and get it fucking over with. 

\---

Pete calls Jeanae once he manages to pick himself up. They’re on an off phase, but those never last long. Pete had called her a bitch, she had punched him and left a black eye that stayed for a week. But Pete’s desperate, and he’s got the script to get her back memorized.

“Hey, baby,” he says into the phone. He doesn’t sound like he’s spent most of the morning hungover, but his voice is still a little rough. He hopes it works enough in his favor. “I miss you.”

He’s parked across the street from her house, legs tucked up on the seat, elbows on the steering wheel. It’s hot in the car, the stench of metal cloying. He’s got the windows up, and all the air tastes stale, recycled breaths that just keep getting harder and harder to breathe in. There’s sweat gathering at the small of his back. He feels like an addict on a bender.

“Yeah, well.” Jeanae is silent and Pete knows she’s waiting. The nice thing about high school girls, he thinks, is that they haven’t learned to say no.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Pete says and is kind of sincere about it. He’d been having an off day, and she was only being as big a bitch as she usually is. It’s normally something Pete loves her for. He taps his fingers against his forehead. The plastic case of his phone is burning against his cheek. “You know I love you, right?”

“...You’re such a jerk, Wentz,” Jeanae says, but her voice isn’t as cold as it was. Pete gives a silent sigh of relief. He’s the first guy she dated, the first one to say _I love you_ to her, panting in the backseat. “You have to do better this time, or I swear to god I’m not coming back again. Swear to god.”

“I will, baby,” he promises. He can almost believe it himself. “I will.” He looks up at her window through the window of his shitty Jetta, fogged breath on the glass obscuring his view. He can see her silhouette through the curtains, small and slim and familiar.

“You going to let me in?”

Her parents are out at their day jobs, and Pete’s banking on her being as desperate as he is. When she appears in the doorway, she’s wearing one of his old t-shirts like a dress, her short, choppy hair feathered around her annoyed face. Still, she leans against the door frame, bare legs crossed, and waits for Pete to sprint inside.

Her waist is tiny in Pete’s cold hands, warm and smooth under his fingertips. She scowls when he leans in, but she still kisses him sweet like summer, soda on her breath as Pete slips his tongue against the arch of her lips. Her breasts press against his chest, and Pete reaches up to pass his hand over one, just to feel, just to remind himself.

She blows him on her parents' couch. She lets Pete grope her like he’s the one that’s sixteen, his hands large against her pale, thin chest, fingers spread wide over her tits. It takes a while, Pete’s gut twisted as he tells himself: you like _this_ , you fucking like _this_.

When he tells Jeanae to ride him, she hops up on his lap without question, sits on his bare dick and presses her chest into his face. She’s stupid like all high school girls are stupid. He fucks a lot of people, can’t remember if he wore a condom last night either, and his chest feel like it's going to burst. Pete’s in love with her crazy, feels his own connect with it on a deeper level. She’s going to grow up just as fucked up as he is.

She’s wet and hot and tight around him, her thighs soft under his hands, just shaved and still smelling like lilac. Pete buries his face into the curve of her throat and breathes her in. He knows the soap she uses, has washed her hair with her knock off brand strawberry scented shampoo, pressed slick and wet against her in her parent’s shower. He sucks a bruise into the space between her tits and hopes that the mark low on his throat is still hidden by his pullover hoodie, hopes there is no evidence left of what he’s done.

It takes him a while to get off, his head too full and his stomach still fighting him. He reaches down and rubs her off with his fingers, listens to her pant and whine against his ear. When she comes, he pulls out and jerks himself hard enough to hurt. Come spurts over her thigh and stomach, and Pete breathes out a sigh of relief. 

While Jeanae’s in the shower—Dove soap and strawberry shampoo, pink loofah that’s falling apart at the edges—Pete curls up on her bed and holds her pillow to his chest, breathing in the soft, sweet smell of girly perfume. She smiles at him when she comes back, naked and damp, and says she’s ready for round two. Pete fakes a smile back and lays his head between her thighs. This, at least, he knows he can do.

\---

Joe is weird. Awesome, but weird. He’s wearing a Slayer t-shirt that’s a size too big and baggy jeans to match, his checker print boxers sticking out over the waistband. The chop job of his hair is possibly worse than Pete’s, too short in the back and floppy over his ears when he forgets to gel it. He’s been bleaching it for years, and the peroxide white patches around his hairline blend into his mottled, acne riddled face. He talks too slow and has no sense of style, but Pete thinks he’s a pretty rad dude for all it’s worth.

“So, we’re down a guitarist,” Pete says to Joe’s sneakers. He’s upside down on the couch, all the blood in his body rushing to his head and making it feel too heavy. “Tim moved on without us, dude. It’s fucking tragic.”

Pete’s been playing in this dumb high school turned local scene band for years. He remembers sweating in the basement, the stink of him and Chris and Tim and Andy all jammed into one small space overpowering, his throat raw from screaming. When the basements turned into real stages, people staring up at him just as angry and bitter as he was, it felt like home. Like he’d finally found his place in the world.

They haven’t gone too far, haven’t really left Illinois except to tour the outsides of Indiana and Wisconsin, but Illinois loves them enough to keep Pete job free. It never stops being a rush when an angry high schooler stops him, asks him to sign an autograph or tells him how great the last show was, when he sees kids in their merch, Arma Angelus scribbled across their chests. It makes him feel like he’s got something going. That it’s not all pointless.

“And?” Joe asks through a mouthful of Doritos. He’s still in the gangly, awkward phase of his teen years. He moves more like a spider than anything graceful as he trips a little over his own feet navigating through his messy room. “I thought we were going to do a new band together, anyway?”

“Yeah, but you should fill in for Arma,” Pete says. Joe’s eyes get a little wide, and Pete has to bite back a laugh. He forgets, sometimes, that Joe has their CD and some of their merch in his closet, right there along with Saves the Day and Lifetime. “Get your stage legs.”

“Yeah, no, that sounds great.” Joe shoves a handful of chips into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Pete knows a diversion tactic when he sees one. After an awkward pause, Joe asks, “So, do you think I’m good enough?”

Pete snorts and doesn’t tell him that he’s only been playing bass for maybe four years. Joe’s been playing most of his life, has music in his blood. If Pete’s good enough, Joe’s totally in. Pete steals a chip and flips the channel. On the screen, Patrick Swayze dances Baby across the stage to shitty eighties pop. Pete reaches for one of the lukewarm beers stashed under Joe’s bed and settles in.

“Any leads on that, by the way?” Pete asks later, after the credits have rolled and America’s Funniest Home Videos has taken over. Joe blinks up at him, somewhere between dazed and asleep. Full belly and a few beers, and Joe’s out like a goddamn light.

“I got a few people to ask,” he says, shrugging. “Anyone who goes to college plays guitar now, right?” He yawns into his arm and reaches for the remote. Pete’s eye catches on the way his muscles bunch under his shirt, skinny back and sharp shoulder blades standing out. He turns to the TV and stares blankly at the screen. “Do you know anyone who can, like, play drums?”

“A few,” Pete says, amused. He knows most of the scene, played with half of them. “I might be able to talk Andy into it.”

“Cool.”

Joe turns the Food Network on, and passes out again. Pete wonders if this new band thing is actually going to work. He thinks about splitting away from Arma and building a reputation that isn’t all about being angry at everything all the time.

Maybe it can be a fresh start.

\---

Pete takes Jeanae shopping the week before Christmas. She’s not quite old enough for a license and it’s not like he has a whole lot else to do, stuck between semesters and tours. She bitches about her friends and about her family, and Pete tunes her out to the best of his ability. She’s hot and sometimes she’s cool to be around, but mostly she just makes noise at him. There’s only so much drama Pete can deal with.

There’s a headache building up in his temples, exacerbated by the lights of the stores and the sound of all the people around him chattering. Jeanae’s hand in his is cool and small, her rings pinching his skin every time she moves her fingers. Her skirt barely brushes her knees, puffy and stuffed with baby blue colored tulle. The sound it makes scraping across her skin is driving him nuts.

When she drags him into Claire’s, sneering at the purple and pink winter dance displays, Pete picks at the rubber snap bracelets and slides a ten pack into his pocket. He remembers a time when they were used like sex chicken checkmarks and feels kind of old. He’s only been out of high school for three years, but it already feels like he’s letting his best years go.

Jeanae makes him buy a stupid tiara and wears it in her teased hair for the rest of the day. Pete smiles and calls her princess, plays along when she orders him around. He really wants to be sleeping, or maybe writing something for Arma that’s not total shit, but he’s been trying to stay in her good graces. Spending money on her always seems like it does the trick.

When they go to the movies, they sit in the back and mock the actors, stuffing buttery popcorn into their mouths. Halfway through, Jeanae spreads her legs and her stupid puffy skirt hikes up over her thighs. She’s wiggled her panties down and Pete can see them, red and black and tiny against the seat. He keeps watching the screen as he reaches over and feels her, wet and a little slutty.

The first time he met her she was crying, eyeliner running down her cheeks in thick, ugly smears. Pete had been bumming around at a high school football game, visiting the few friends he’d still had there, and he’d nearly run straight over her where she was crouched on the ground, huddled in on herself. Even standing, he could see her underwear, could see down her shirt. It had been winter then too, and the girl was almost naked. 

Her boyfriend had left her, she said later, cramped in the backseat of Pete’s car. Pete, balls deep and so fucking close to getting off, mumbled something that must have been good enough for her. He’d left with her virginity and her phone number in his back pocket.

In the present, she moans into his ear, probably thinks she’s being sexy, and Pete tries not to be annoyed by it. He used to be into it, used to fucking love her for it, but right now it kind of feels like a chore. He twists his fingers up into her and moves them like clockwork, uses up all his tricks and hopes she doesn’t notice that he’s not getting into it.

He hasn’t been, not for months. He’s been faking it, or avoiding it. He tries to blame the meds he takes twice a day every day, but those hadn’t bothered him before, not like this.

When Jeanae gets off, cunt tight around Pete’s fingers, she reaches over and rubs her palm against Pete’s crotch, frowning when she feels that he’s still soft. Pete wipes his hand on his jeans and leans into her. She smells like cherries, soft and sweet and young.

“The show was too good,” he says, sly as he can be. Jeanae grins and kisses him. Her lip gloss smears over his mouth. Pete lets out a soft breath that’s hidden by an explosion coming through the speakers. If she notices that he’s totally dry, she doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know what the fuck’s wrong with him, but he needs to get over it, and soon.

Joe calls when the credits roll, and Pete hopes it’s good. He’s crawling out of skin.

“I think I found a drummer,” Joe says into the line. There’s the distinct sound of chewing along with it. Pete cringes. “I told him we’d check him out tomorrow.”

“Awesome,” Pete says, surprised when he actually means it. He’s so bored he’s going blind.

“He knows his shit,” Joe adds.

Pete drags Jeanae through the freezing parking lot and nearly shoves her into the car. Her knees have gone red even though the walk barely takes any time at all. Pete’s got a backup story now. He has a reason to take her home without looking like a total dick.

“He totally, like, writes his own songs in his free time. They’re fucking good, dude. Like, real deal good.”

Pete feels a flutter of hope as he pulls out of the parking lot, phone trapped between his ear and shoulder. If Joe thinks this dude’s so good, he probably is. Joe’s more than just a slightly dopey kid. He’s smart, and he’s got an ear that makes Pete’s look weak in comparison.

“Awesome,” he says again. He takes off towards Jeanae’s place, speeding down the slick road. “What time?”

“Two,” Joe answers. Another crunch, the slick sound of his chomping teeth. “Pick me up and I’ll show you the way to his place.”

“I have to go meet this dude for an audition,” Pete says when he hangs up. He omits the day and doesn’t feel bad about it at all. “You cool with going home?”

“I guess.” Jeanae crosses her arms over her chest and pouts, but Pete’s done his boyfriend thing for the day. He’s off the hook.

When he pulls up to her house, Jeanae kisses him before flouncing off with her bags of shiny new things. Pete waits until she’s inside, the heavy door slamming shut behind her, the wreath hanging on it nearly toppling off. He cranks the radio, feels it fill the car and throb in time to his blooming headache, and goes home.

He sleeps through the rest of afternoon and spends the night watching porn on his shitty TV with the volume turned off. It’s not as great as he thought it would be.

\---

Pete wakes up and finds a demo in his inbox. It’s from Joe and is labeled “LISTEN NOW,” all capital letters and over-sized font. So, Pete does. It’s a rough cut of a song. It’s just the instrumental, but it’s kind of impressive. Pete listens to it close, catches the pauses where things were pasted together and thinks, huh. It’s really fucking good. He puts it on repeat and nods his head to the syncopated rhythm. It’s not as hardcore as the stuff he’s used to playing is, but he can get behind it.

At one thirty he picks Joe up and listens to him ramble about how the mystery dude had made that in a week, just him and a computer and a lot of determination. Pete can admit that he’s impressed, and he does so begrudgingly. They pull up in front of a modest house and Pete cuts the engine. He’s got a good feeling about this, can feel it in his veins as he looks up at the white paint and flower print curtains. Joe beats him to the door and rings the bell cheerfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He’s wearing the biggest winter coat Pete’s ever seen. He looks kind of stupid. The roots of his hair are taking over, bleeding into the blonde, the ends curling against his face.

Pete’s freezing. He watches the door, glaring at the handle as it stays static. He can’t feel his fingertips. If the tracks Joe had forwarded him hadn’t been so good, Pete would be knocking points off this kid’s scorecard for taking so long. Pete’s not a diva, but he’s a somebody, damnit. He shouldn’t be kept waiting. Eventually there’s a crash and a muttered curse and then the door crashes opens, spits the kid out at high speed. Pete’s heart stutters in his chest as the kid rights himself.

On the porch, Patrick’s staring at him, face turning red.

Pete’s stomach drops. He feels faint. Joe’s missing his signs, oblivious as he steps up to Patrick and throws an arm around his shoulders openly, over friendly like he always is. Patrick still hasn’t moved, stiff under the layers of Joe’s thick coat, shaking in his t-shirt and jeans. Pete’s stuck to the sidewalk, his legs like lead. He can’t move, can’t think, can’t break the staredown. He wonders what Patrick’s thinking, what he’s remembering.

“Pete, this is the guy I’ve been telling you about,” Joe says pointedly, raising his eyebrows. It sounds like he’s under water, so far away that Pete can barely hear him. “Patrick Stump, this is Pete Wentz. He’s not normally so, like, quiet.”

Joe shoots him a weird look, and Pete swallows down the knot in his throat. Normal, he thinks. He has to be normal.

“Hey,” he says, rough around the edges. He’s going to pretend nothing happened and it’s going to go away. They need this kid to get out of here and Pete’s not going to give into his urge to bolt. Stubborn down to the bone, mean enough to throw other people under the bus for him.

“I know, right?” Joe says, after a moment, looking between Pete and Patrick, grinning like he’s finally getting what’s going on. “It’s hard to believe this dude is _Pete Wentz_ , but he’s not that intimidating. Swear. Hey, do you have any pretzels?”

Patrick shakes his head, breaks the stare first. He lets them inside, Joe’s arm still locked around his shoulders tightly. Pete wants to pull Joe away, wants to say _he takes it up the ass_ , wants to say _don’t catch the gay, dude,_ wants to grab him by the wrist and just get the fuck out. But he digs his heels in, bites his lip, and follows them into the kitchen.

It’s awkward, Pete and Patrick both near silent, shuffling around in the far corners of the room. Joe fills in the blank spots, chowing down on the crackers that Patrick had pulled down for him like it’s not the first time he’s been over. He tells Patrick about his vision for this band, tells him about how all they need to do is lock in the last pieces, how he wants Patrick to be one of them. They can be a team. They can make art. Pete stares at the dirty tile floor and thinks about music.

And Patrick, when they head to the basement where his equipment is, plays drums like a fucking rock star, wrists right and rhythm perfect and nearly as good as Andy. Pete hates him all the more for it.

“We already have a drummer,” Pete cuts in, shouting over the crash of a cymbal. Joe glances over at him, frowning. Pete swallows and tries not to think of what’s in his head. “Sorry, man.”

“Pete,” Joe hisses, leaning in close enough for Pete to smell the butter of the crackers on his breath. “What the fuck?”

“I called Andy in,” Pete lies, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, why he’s blocking himself so thoroughly. He hasn’t called, but Andy owes him a few favors, won’t turn him down when he does ask. Probably. Most likely.

“I thought this kid might be better.” He looks up, meets Patrick’s angry eyes and almost feels guilty. “I was wrong.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Joe elbows him in the chest. He runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “Well. I kind of feel like an ass, man. You’re fucking great though. I still want you in. Do you play guitar?”

“Not well,” Patrick says uneasily. He’s tapping the sticks on his thighs, tight motions that barely make a sound.

“Can you sing?” Joe asks. He laughs, bright like he’s figured it out. “Fuck, they let Pete sing in bands. You can’t be worse than that.” Pete wants to take offense to it, but his dry throat is keeping him quiet.

“I’d rather not,” Patrick says. He sets his sticks down and stands, not looking up at either one of them. He looks pathetic. 

Pete can remember Patrick pressed to his side, slurring songs about drinking and being drunk and getting drunker, giggle tripping over the words. He’s not sure if he’s trying to sabotage Patrick or himself.

“Sing,” Pete says, mouth running in before he can think. Always, always running in before he can think.

“No,” Patrick says tightly.

“Sing,” Pete says again. Joe’s looking at him funny, eyebrows together, shoulders starting to get tense. Pete’s a lot of things and selfish is at the top of the list. “Just fucking do it.”

Patrick sings.

His voice is tight, angry, and it cracks in a few places as he goes along, young and vulnerable but strong. He’s got good pitch, and when he hits low notes Pete can hear his potential, knows that this kid is going to be the thing that gets him out of Ilinois if he lets him. Fire burns low in the pit of his stomach, boiling over as Patrick stumbles to a halt. It kills him not to scream when Joe jumps on board.

“You’re in,” he says breathlessly. Pete seethes.

Joe wants to stay for lunch and Pete can’t come up with a reason why they can’t. Patrick makes them pancakes on the griddle, talking quietly to Joe as they sizzle. They sit in the living room, the television playing static noise as they eat. Pete prods at his plate idly and wonders how long it’s been since he’s actually eaten.

When Joe gets up to use the bathroom, Pete curls in on himself on the couch, his uneaten pancakes gone cold. He feels like a victim in his skin, traitor and jury and beady-eyed judge fighting inside, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Pete...”

“Don’t,” Pete says, head snapping up. It’s the first time they’ve talked directly to one another. Pete feels like he’s going to start crawling up the walls. He’s so fucking confused. “We don’t know each other. We never met until this morning. My girlfriend will be coming to practices to do her homework, so I hope you have so free space.” Patrick clenches his jaw, the baby soft curve at the corners going rigid.

“Fine,” he spits. “I hope you choke.”

Joe comes back before Pete can throw himself at that little asshole, all smiles and big grins.

“When should we get started?”

“Soon,” Pete says. He’s itching to get out and away. If this is the only way to do it, then this is how it’s going to be. He’ll ignore the giant, flaming elephant in the room and focus on the music.

When they leave, Patrick puts his number in Joe’s phone and Joe puts both of theirs into Patrick’s. Pete spends most of the night awake, expecting to get an angry call. Thankfully, his phone stays blissfully silent.

Pete takes his meds at midnight and watches the sun come up, eyes burning against the light. He wakes up frozen on his rooftop, snow falling around his face.

\---

Pete’s spent more time on Andy’s couch than is probably healthy. They’d played in a few bands together in high school and had lived together once, before Pete had moved back into his parents’ house to “save money.” He’s good people, solid and reliable. Pete’s banking on this. He thumps down and watches Andy play. 

He’s never understood the game, doesn’t even pretend to try, but he can appreciate the graphics and the way Andy viciously obliterates the competition. He watches him mash buttons for a half hour, sucking idly on a popsicle. When the tournament goes on a quick break, Pete jumps in to make his move. Andy’s many things and patient isn’t always one of them.

"I'm starting a new band," he says to Andy's back. Andy doesn't stop making his lunch. "We could use a drummer, and you're the best."

"Aren't you doing Arma right now?" Andy finally asks, mouth full of fake turkey sandwich. Pete shrugs.

Andy had been in Arma for a while, stuck in the back with a busted up kit. He was better than all the rest of them, all his time eaten away by band after band after band. Pete had bit his tongue when Andy and Chris had started fighting, clenched his fists to keep from jumping straight into the middle. Arma's gotten better, learned how to be a band instead of a bunch of assholes with instruments, but Pete can still remember Andy shoving a stick through his snare after a snarling argument with Chris about practices, can remember the way the door creaked in the frame as it slammed behind Andy on his way out.

The band doesn't really talk about it. Chris was an asshole, Pete and Tim were cowards. At least Pete can say he learned something, no matter how shitty the lesson.

"You did, like, six bands once," Pete reminds him. Andy likes to keep busy. If he's busy playing, he can keep himself out of trouble.

Andy watches him steadily, eyes narrowed. He's trying to figure Pete out. It's as annoying now as it always has been. The Xbox pings, a message popping back up to notify him that they're back on and ready to go. Andy doesn't leave the kitchen, instead hunching over the counter and resting his chin on his hand.

“You’re nervous,” Andy finally says. Jesus fuck, here they go.

“It’s because you’re staring at me, you creep.” Pete drags his legs up onto the couch, ignoring the scowl Andy directs at his shoes. “Remember Joe? He found this guy.” Pete’s fingers curl around his shins. He tries not to let his contempt show. “He’s good. Knows his shit. You’re the best drummer I know, man. Wouldn’t dream of asking anyone else.” Andy keeps watching him.

“You’re not telling me something, Wentz.” He drops his plate into the sink and grabs a soda from the fridge. When he flops down onto the couch, the cushions bounce against Pete’s legs.

“I miss playing with you, dude,” Pete says. It’s not totally a lie. “We did good together. What’s another band? I know you’ve got the time for it.”

Andy shrugs and picks up the controller he’d left abandoned on the table. He hands a free one to Pete and presses start. He isn’t looking when he says, “I’ll think about it.”

Pete grins even as he gets his ass handed to him. Andy is in.

\---

Christmas finds Pete at Nana Wentz’s house, stuffing himself full of homemade cookies and watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ for approximately the nine hundredth time. Andrew and Hillary are opening presents, still young and excited enough to care, the sounds of wrapping paper tearing filling the living room.

Last night at the Christmas Eve party, Pete’s father had handed him a red envelope. His name had been written across it in neat, tight letters and said _Merry Christmas, son._

Inside, there was a neatly typed letter with an accompanying check written out to DePaul, courtesy of his father’s law firm. He’d wanted to say _can I trade it for a skateboard_? He still wants to, jealousy eating at him as he watches his siblings cheer over their gifts. He knows that it’ll just land him in the doghouse, get him sent to his room like the child he isn’t. So. Cookies.

He’s got plans with Jeanae and her group of friends later, going out to ice skate or something. He doesn’t really remember. He’d been half asleep when she’d called. It’s something to get him out of the house, at least. Maybe he can get Jeanae to ditch the teenagers and make out with him in the lodge. It sounds like a good plan.

Pete fakes his way through dinner, comments too sharp and face pinched. He drinks enough scotch and eggnog to kill a small animal, filling his throat to keep his tongue in check. He smiles too big at his family, laughs too much and too loud.

Andrew’s the only one to pull him aside, to ask, “Should you be drinking with your pills?”

And Pete, he says, “I guess we’ll find out.”

At five thirty, he picks Jeanae and her pack of jackals up at her place. The five of them fill his car to maximum capacity, three in the back and one in the passenger side seat, Jeanae jammed over the center console. She lays her head on Pete’s shoulder for the ride, face tucked into his neck. Her closeness makes him feel warm, content. Pushes any thoughts of his dad’s scholarship and the new band out of his head.

They point him to Glenview. He avoids driving through Patrick’s neighborhood by faking an interest in the truly horrific light display a few streets over, mouthing off about the garish baby Jesus blow up statue in someone’s front yard. The girls titter in the backseat, abrasive and shrill. He’s half a decade older than all of them. Jeanae smiles at him, humming quietly.

They wind up at the skating rink. Pete pays for his and Jeanae’s rental skates, glad that he doubled up on hoodies. The chill still sinks in as he sits down at the bench and tucks his shoes into the cubby below it. His skates are purple and worn in, the toes scuffed almost grey and the clasps creaking as he tightens them. He wobbles to the rink against the ache of his bum knee—always acts up when it’s cold, reminds him to be more careful when jumping off of things—and tries his best not to go sprawling on his ass.

When he gets the hang of it, Pete races the girls on the ice, legs swinging the heavy boots and ice flying up into his socks. It’s mindless and easy, the steady one-two movements of his legs. The cold air on his face makes his cheeks burn. He feels young, like he’s got something waiting for him for once. He breathes out heavily and it looks like smoke rising up from his lungs. If he were feeling like writing a song, it would be thick with words about souls and clearing the air forever.

The girls think he’s magic. Pete plays pony for them, racing quick, tight circles around the rink. His thighs are already burning but Jeanae keeps smiling at him, eyes bright under the fluorescents every time he does something stupid. Pete hefts her up and skates her around the rink, the heels of her skates digging into the small of his back. Her face presses to his neck as she laughs, the sound floating up into Pete’s chest.

His heart beats double as he holds her close. He closes his eyes and breathes in the cold of the air and the familiar perfume and thinks _I’m okay. We’re okay._

\---

Joe’s having a New Year's Eve party. His parents are out for the week taking second honeymooning in Pennsylvania, and Joe’s taking full advantage of the free house. Pete’s been staying with him for the last couple of days, too restless to go home, too tired to really go out. Joe puts up with him in both moods and never asks questions.

Pete’s the one that’s roped into buying the alcohol. He brings home three kegs and enough liquor to fill the trunk, the glass bottles clinking every time he has to slow to a stop. Joe’s eyes go a little wide when he sees Pete’s haul. It’s hilarious that he still thinks that Pete does anything in halves.

“Charge five dollars at the door,” Pete tells him as they haul the first keg in. “What we make on this, we can use for the band.”

The band is, well. They’ve only practiced for a few weeks, but Patrick has a backlog of music that he’s been handing them, shy and squirming as he sings to the demos. The drums and bass were recorded live, the guitar played via keyboard, and all of it sounds too good to have come from some scrawny kid with too much time on his hands.

Still, Pete plays his parts and changes what he doesn’t like, and he hears music that might be something someday. He tells Patrick that he’s got talent when the room’s crowded, acts as awestruck as he feels, but avoids him when they’re alone. Jeanae thinks his fawning is cute, and she’s obligingly stayed after every practice until Pete could find an out. Pete’s never been so grateful for her.

Pete turns Joe’s kitchen into a bar and shows it off with a flourish, proud of what they’ve got. There’s two hundred dollars missing from his father’s credit card, but Pete feels like it’s a fair tradeoff for his shitty Christmas. He celebrates his revenge by roping Joe into a pre-party shot and laughs until he falls over when Joe chokes on the shitty tequila.

People start showing up at six, dragging in bags of chips and tossing their five bucks into the old cookie tin Joe has set up next to the door. Pete had written “band fund” on it in big, thick letters, and every time someone asks about it, Pete sings their praises until the other person wanders away. He’s not good at much, but he’s good at getting himself stuck in other people’s heads.

Jeanae’s mom drops her off with a dubious look towards the house. Pete smiles disarmingly and tells her that they’re having a birthday party for his friend Joe. Mrs. White frowns as Jeanae rolls her eyes and hops out of the car, her skirt swaying over her lean thighs. Pete can see her watching through the rearview mirror as she drives away, all the way until her car disappears around the corner.

When Jeanae finds a friend, some other high school girl in a tiny dress and high heels, Pete wanders to the bar set up. He mans it for a while, putting on his best bartender face and asking people to tell him their life stories. Some do, but most just laugh at him and take their drinks. He’s feeling like he’s about to hit a manic run, all smiles and big motions, can’t really remember the last time he took his pills.

To throw it off, he makes himself a vodka lemonade and downs it too fast to taste. It makes him shiver as it hits his belly, but it’s a good feeling so he does it again. He brings one to Joe, calls him the birthday boy even though Joe won’t get it, and wanders around to find familiar faces.

He finds Patrick instead.

Patrick’s got a cup full of something dark—Coke, maybe with rum, maybe without—and is talking to someone Pete vaguely recognizes. He laughs, bright and chipper, and it feels too familiar to be comfortable. Pete sucks down a beer stolen off the coffee table and makes his way over. He’s feeling like an asshole already.

“I see you’re getting acquainted with my ticket out of Illinois,” Pete says to the person he’s pretty sure is named Jeff.

He slings an arm over Patrick’s shoulders and pulls him in, smiling wide enough that his mouth feels like it’s going to split open. This is the first time he’s touched Patrick willingly since they were reintroduced. Patrick’s tense under him, hand going tight around his cup. His knuckles are bony white, nails digging into the plastic. Pete can smell the liquor on Patrick’s breath and it makes Pete’s stomach uncoil for some reason. Drunk is familiar ground.

“He’s fucking great, really. You should hear him sing,” Pete says. Jeff raises an eyebrow, and Pete taps Patrick’s face with his knuckles. His cheek is alcohol warm, baby soft skin damp with sweat. “Sing. I know you know this one.”

Blink 182 is on the stereo, sinking into conversations and shaking the walls. Patrick stares at him, open mouthed. Pete shakes him a little to get him going. It makes Patrick’s drink jump, the dark liquid nearly spilling out onto the carpet. Patrick watches him a few moments longer before hesitantly starting in on the chorus.

He draws a small crowd, including Joe who whoops in the background. Patrick’s face is pink all the way down into his collar, and Pete feels a touch of schadenfreude as the crowd gets bigger. It’s great publicity and a great way to piss Patrick off all at once. He feels smug through the whole thing.

“Yo, Joe,” Pete calls when the song’s over. “You should get your guitar out. Give the people a preview.”

“No,” Patrick says, squirming under Pete’s arm. Pete hangs on tighter and waves Joe off.

“Go on. Show them what they’re supporting,” Pete says.

They set up in the middle of the living room, shoving the coffee table and the chairs out of the way. Patrick looks positively green as he drops down onto one of the stools dragged in from the kitchen. Pete snags the rest of his drink—rum, sweetened a little with Coke, stronger than even Pete makes them—and swallows it down as someone shuts the speakers off. He watches Patrick’s hands twist in his lap, fingers curling over and over and over each other, nervous.

They run through a couple of songs, easy and a little weak with just the acoustic. Pete can only kind of remember the bass lines Patrick had written, his hands clumsy as he tries to play against his thigh. Patrick’s voice shakes a little, his eyes trained on the floor. He’s not cut out for this at all. Something is holding him back, too shy and too soft for the viciousness of a crowd. Pete laughs meanly, but he talks them up anyway between songs.

The crowd breaks up when Joe says they’ve run out of things, come back later. A few people keep talking about it—Pete hears the word potential thrown around—and he feels that flutter of hope deep in the pit of his stomach again. He drowns it out with another shot of tequila. Hoping isn’t enough.

Patrick finds him later, face red and fists clenched at his sides. He’s so small, so young. Pete stares at him with hazy eyes and tries to shake off the dizziness that’s blurring his vision. In the background he can hear people chanting for a kegstand. His head swims.

“Don’t do that again,” Patrick hisses out, voice almost too low to be heard over the music. He backs Pete up against the wall, one finger pointed in Pete’s face like he’s someone’s fucking mother. “I swear to god, don’t fucking do that again.”

“What?” Pete asks, because he’s done a lot of shit and people never specify when they tell him to stop. Patrick shoves him and Pete’s legs nearly give out at the knees.

“What you did out there? Wasn’t cool.” Patrick’s breath smells like orange juice. He’s probably been swallowing down screwdrivers with Joe. “If you want this band thing to work out, you’re going to have to stop being a dick.”

At _dick_ Pete laughs and staggers forward, into Patrick’s space. They’re almost the same height, Patrick’s fucked up hair cut just shy of the top of Pete’s forehead. Pete likes his voice, likes the way he sounds when he’s singing and when he’s pissed off. And his mouth. It’s pink and thick and damp, probably tastes like vodka.

So, Pete kisses him. Shoves his mouth against Patrick’s and tries to siphon the liquor out of him, tries to swallow his voice and absorb it into his skin. Patrick goes tight against him, stiff, and Pete pulls back.

Patrick’s watching him, face drawn up like he’s in pain, and Pete suddenly remembers why he hates him, remembers waking up and seeing that face and getting sick for hours.

“Fuck.” He shoves past Patrick and stumbles his way down the stairs. He’s got to find Jeanae.

He finds her in the kitchen, leaned over the counter watching the dance off that’s happening in the living room. From the doorway, he can see her white underwear. Pete wraps his hands around her waist, his fingers nearly touching at the middle of her stomach. She leans back into him, and Pete presses his face into her neck.

“We should go upstairs,” he says against her skin. Jeanae smiles at him, her eyes glassy. The sweet smell of daiquiri surrounds her like a cloud.

He leads her to Joe’s room, stumbling over Joe’s clothes and into his bed. Jeanae weighs nothing on top of him, her skirt fluttering around her thighs as she crawls over his hips. Pete’s head is spinning, the room nothing but a blur of blue and smears of black.

Jeanae looks pale in the dim light coming through the windows. Pete tries to focus on pulling her shirt up over her head without hurting either one of them, but his hands aren’t working so well with him. She’s not wearing a bra and her small tits bounce when Pete gets her top all the way off, tossing it to the side of the mattress. Pete palms one and closes his eyes against the nausea creeping up his throat.

Jeanae rubs a hand over his crotch, fingers working his zipper. Pete presses up into it, rocks against her. When she gets his fly open, she wraps her fingers around his half hard dick and pulls him out, rubs her thumb under the head and leans in to kiss him.

Pete tastes her lip gloss on his mouth and wills his dick to stiffen up. She pulls at him but all it does is chafe, and no matter how much Pete gropes at her chest, he can’t get it up. He can’t fucking get it up.

“Are you serious?” Jeanae asks. She whips her hand up, crossing her arms under her tits. Pete swallows, his mouth dry. Stuck between a rock and a bitchy corner, he pretends to pass out. It’s easier this way.

Eventually, Jeanae crawls off of him and pulls her shirt back on, the bed bouncing under her sharp, angry motions. She punches him in the chest before she leaves, the door slamming shut behind her. When he’s sure she’s gone, Pete tucks himself in and tries to catch his breath.

He needs another drink.

\---

Pete wakes up on the floor in Joe's basement, head throbbing. He's covered in dust, sweating on one side and cold on the other. Somewhere between stumbling out of the bedroom and passing out he'd lost his shirt. There's a Sharpie black dick drawn on his arm, creeping up past his elbow and down across his wrist. Pete groans and forces himself to sit up. He's getting too old for high school parties.

When he manages to drag himself upstairs, he finds Joe humming in the kitchen, shoving glass after glass into the dishwasher. It sounds like he's throwing them against the wall, the sharp, grinding sound of them clinking together ripping into his brain. He sinks down onto a chair and moans pathetically until Joe hands him a mostly clean cup of water.

"You look like shit," Joe says cheerfully. There's a purpling bruise peeking out from under his collar. Pete rubs his eyes and flips him off.

"Fuck you," Pete rasps out. He gulps down his water and wiggles his glass until Joe fills it up again. "Is Jeanae still here?"

"Yeah, no." Joe starts the dishwasher, the sound like knives in Pete's ears. "She left early last night. She, uh." Joe scratches a hand through his messy hair, cheeks turning a dull pink. It clashes with his acne. "She was telling everyone that you can't get it up."

"Fucking bitch." Pete drops his head to the counter and forces himself to breathe. At least it's better than the other part of the night getting out.

"Sorry, man," Joe says. He pats Pete's shoulder awkwardly. When he pulls away, he makes a face at the dirt clinging to his hand. "Maybe you should shower. You're kind of—"

"For the love of God, shut up." Pete tugs at his hair and pushes away from the counter. His head aches. He should be over the whole hangover thing by now. He's halfway up the stairs when he runs into a passed out freshman. Her skirt is flipped up over her ass, pink panties halfway down. Pete's stomach churns at the sight of her.

If he were a good person, he'd at least kick her awake. As it is, he grabs onto the railing for support and climbs over her. He's tired of dealing with people's shit.

\---

They spend January and February holed up in Patrick’s basement, writing song after song after shitty fucking song. Pete stays at Joe’s more often than not, sneaking in and out to avoid Joe’s parents, eating chips and trying fruitlessly to sleep during the day while Joe’s at school.

Patrick doesn’t ask him about the New Years party, and Pete pushes it to the back of his mind with everything else. Things are strained with Jeanae—phone calls at midnight, screaming in each other’s faces at clubs, and bars, and shows until they’re both too hoarse to speak anymore. Pete’s going crazy inside his own head, antsy and waiting for something else to come crashing down. He can feel it coming in his spine.

The band isn’t great, but they’re not terrible. Pete’s heard worse, been in worse. Patrick’s voice cracks sometimes when he’s singing, and Joe sometimes gets too into fucking around with his guitar that he forgets to play it, but they’ve got potential. They have a chance.

Pete talks Arma Angelus into letting them open. Patrick goes a little green when Pete tells him that they’re going to play a few shows, just to get the hang of it. He doesn’t say anything about it as the weeks fly by, but he practices until he loses his speaking voice, three days before they start the gigs.

“I don’t think I can do this,” Patrick says to Joe when they’re at the first venue. He’s clutching a bottle of water to his chest, sweat already visible under his arms. It’s kind of gross.

They’ve been calling themselves Fall Out Boy and they’re nothing like Arma at all. Pete looks out into the crowd and rocks up onto the balls of his feet. He’s ready for a change. He’s so goddamn ready.

“You’re going to do fine,” Pete says. He means it, even. “Seriously.”

Andy heads out first, a stage veteran. Pete watches Joe hug Patrick for luck, annoyance creeping up into his chest. This is easy. This is everything they’ve been doing for months with a few extra people in the room.

“Enough of the gay shit. Let’s go.” He doesn’t wait for them, jogging out onto the stage.

“So, hey,” he says into the microphone when he grabs up his bass. He recognizes people and they recognize him. It eats away some of Pete’s tension, puts him back into familiar ground as he sinks into his role. “This isn’t Arma, but you’re gonna like it anyway.”

And, well, Patrick looks sick as they start, but he’s still more serious about being in a band than anyone Pete’s ever met. His voice wobbles on the first song but it picks up through the second one, and Joe plays like he’s on fire. The kids clap and a few nod along, and it’s not what Pete’s used to, but it’s good. It’s a start.

When Arma Angelus plays, Patrick and Andy flit off into the crowd, leaving Pete and Joe to play through the next set. Pete screams until he doesn’t feel so heavy. He goes home with the knowledge that they’re not wasting their time.

\---

Pete’s half asleep when his phone rings. He’s camped out on the roof of his parent’s house, the weather still too cold to be out in, bundled up in all the hoodies he could find scattered across the floor of his room. It’s March but it feels like January all over again, cold sinking all the way into his chest.

“Yeah?” He holds the phone to his cheek, pressing into its warmth. He can see his breath, spiraling out over the rooftop like smoke.

“I cheated on you.” It’s Jeanae’s voice, thin and tinny through the speaker. Pete doesn’t hear anything else because he’s chucking his phone off the roof, into the last snowdrift at the end of his driveway watching it disappear.

She shows up later, when Pete’s dangling his legs in front of his bedroom window, ass numb from sitting on the ledge for too long. Her friend that’s driving doesn’t look up. She’s one of the ones he took ice skating, one of the ones that had giggled and flirted with him when Jeanae had been in the bathroom. The irony isn’t lost on him. Pete wants to jump and see if he can land on her car, crush the roof in on them both.

“Are you going to jump?” Jeanae shouts up at him when she steps out of the passenger side. Pete laughs.

“Are you going to stop me?” He asks.

She looks small and beautiful, like nothing’s changed at all. Like she hasn’t just crushed him. Pete feels like he’s being ripped to shreds from the inside out. He loves her, and she’s going away again. Pete doesn’t know if he’ll chase her down this time.

“Pete.” Jeanae shakes her head, her short hair curling around her cheeks. “You weren’t with me anymore.”

“Yeah, well.” Pete kicks his shoes against his window and they thud hollowly. Left, right, left. Thud, thud, thud. Mindlessly over and over.

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” she says. She’s so very, very young. He wonders if she fucked someone her own age for once. “I couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Then go do it with someone else,” Pete shouts. He jumps, and she screams.

He tucks and hits the bushes, rolling into them. It’s goddamn hilarious because he’s been doing this since he was twelve, melodramatic and eager to hurt himself. When he stands up, perfectly fine, Jeanae slaps him. It stings against his cold cheek, her breathing the only thing Pete can hear over his thundering heartbeat. He wonders if he can at least get a goodbye kiss. For old time’s sake.

“You’re such an asshole,” Jeanae shouts before storming off to her friend’s car. Pete watches her go and shakes from the wind.

\---

Joe’s not home when Pete goes to his house. His mom says he’s gone to visit his aunt’s for the weekend, that he won’t be back for a few days still. Pete considers climbing up the side of the house to his window anyway, but he doesn’t want to have to explain himself when he eventually gets caught.

He drives for a few hours, burning gas and wasting time until he can’t see the road anymore. He brakes at a corner store and thinks about maybe buying coffee, enough to keep him awake for weeks, but he stays in the car and takes a right instead.

It’s not really surprising when he finds himself parked in front of Patrick’s house.

The clock on the dash says it’s midnight, but there’s a light burning upstairs in Patrick’s room, yellow through his curtains. Pete cuts the engine and makes his way through the yard, scooping up a handful of gravel from the driveway as he goes.

The gravel bounces nicely off of Patrick’s window, the soft ping of it drifting down to where Pete’s standing. It takes six throws until Patrick’s head pops out, his hair messy at the top of his head, bad haircut framed by the brightness of his room.

“What are you doing here?” He hisses, almost too low to be heard over the wind. He should be in bed, Pete thinks. Bedtime for babies. He needs older friends.

“Come out with me.” Pete tosses another pebble and it bounces off the window frame. Patrick scowls. It’s not really a good look on him.

“I don’t actually trust you enough for that.” He looks like he’s about to shut the window, fingers already clasped around the top.

“I promise I won’t leave you anywhere,” he says, probably too loud. Patrick narrows his eyes, untrusting. Pete guesses he can’t really blame the kid. He wouldn’t trust himself either.

“Where would we be going?” Patrick asks suspiciously.

Progress.

“For a drive. I just need some company.” Pete waits in silence as Patrick deliberates, bouncing on his toes to fight off the cold. He can see the moment that Patrick decides that he’s going to play along. The kid’s almost too easy to read.

“I swear to god, Wentz, I’ll actually kill you if this is a joke.” Patrick disappears through his window, only to reappear at the door ten minutes later bundled up in a sweater and a flannel hat.

“Come on,” Pete says and leads him back to the car.

Patrick’s tense in the passenger seat as Pete drives, huddled up against the door. They’re not friends, not really. Pete only talks to him at practice, skirting around him as much as he can, and Patrick doesn’t call him out on it.

Pete drives.

Somewhere between Deerfield and Libertyville, Pete catches Patrick staring at him, open and curious. It’s unnerving. Pete taps his fingers against the steering wheel and tries to ignore it. He loves attention, craves it even, but right now all he wants is to hide under the seat and lick his wounds. Patrick doesn’t look away, and Pete doesn’t make him.

Nearly an hour later, Pete pulls into an empty lot and cuts the engine. In front of them hundreds of evergreens stand tall, their branches still powdery with the last of the snow, dark and figureless in the night. Without the lights from the city, he can see stars. He’s not sure which side of the state line he’s on, but it doesn’t really matter.

“Come on,” Pete says and gets out of the car.

Patrick blinks at him through the windshield but stays in his seat. Pete rolls his eyes. Maybe he should have gone to Chris’ place instead. It might have been better company. There definitely would have been more beer.

“Come on, Stump.”

“What are we doing?” Patrick asks warily as he tumbles out of the car.

“I’m going to murder you and hide you in the woods,” Pete deadpans. Patrick’s eyes widen. Pete feels a headache rising behind his eyes. This is ridiculous. “Dude, we’re taking a fucking walk. Chill out.”

Pete shoves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and starts toward the path that leads into the grove. A few moments later he hears Patrick’s footfalls breaking the frost behind him. The air here is cold and thin, their breath rising up in front of them like fog. The silence is nice, something like comfortable as they follow the winding path through the trees.

“So,” Patrick says when they finally stop. He shakes the under branches of a sad, small fir and watches the snow fall off. All around them, the world is still.

“Jeanae broke up with me,” Pete says. He leans back against the trunk of a solid, bare tree and shrugs. “I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Oh,” Patrick says softly. He tugs at the branch level with his hip, staring at the needles that slough off into his palm. When he looks up, his cheeks are pink. “You don’t think it’s… weird that you came to me for company?”

“Not really,” Pete shrugs again. He hasn’t got a lot of options. When he’s not being stupid, Patrick’s not totally a bad guy.

“Right.” Patrick nods, a sharp jerk of his head that looks almost unnatural. He turns to Pete, standing too close to be comfortable, eyes downcast again. He drops the pine needles to the ground, watches them fall. “Right. Let’s get this over with.”

Pete watches with horror as Patrick sinks down to his knees on the frozen over path, hands coming up to curve around Pete’s hips. He’s so blindingly sober that it hurts, but he can’t stop watching, can’t move to push Patrick away as his fingers start in on the buttons of Pete’s jeans. He blanches when he feels himself getting hard, dick curving up towards Patrick’s hand.

The air is cold when it hits his skin, goosebumps breaking out across his stomach and arms, but Patrick presses his palm flat over Pete’s stomach, thumb skidding along the dark trail of hair leading into his jeans. His heat is overbearing, sinking straight through Pete’s skin and into his gut.

Patrick doesn’t fuck around like Jeanae always did. There’s no little kisses to his hip bones, no baby tongue flicks against the head of his cock. No warning. Patrick just wraps a hand around the base and sinks his mouth down, hot and wet and slick.

He twists his wrist as he bobs his head down, his knuckles brushing his stretched, shiny lips. There’s no finesse to his technique but it feels fucking great, fucking fantastic. Makes heat rise up into Pete’s belly and coil like a snake, tense and sharp. Pete shoves his fingers under Patrick’s hat and grips his hair, holding him in close.

Patrick goes still, but after a second he moves his hand and opens his mouth wider. It’s hot in a way Pete wasn’t expecting, and he jerks his hips forward, the tip of his dick hitting the soft back of Patrick’s throat. Patrick fights against the urge to gag, Pete can feel it in the way Patrick’s hands go rigid around Pete’s thighs, the way his throat goes suddenly tight.

If he doesn’t look, Pete can forget that there’s a dude sucking him off. If he doesn’t look, it could be anyone. If he does look though, he’s rewarded with the sight of his cock slipping between Patrick’s red, swollen lips, filling him up and making him sweat.

Patrick wraps his hands around the backs of Pete’s thighs, fingertips sinking in through his jeans, pulling him in closer. When he hollows his cheeks, Pete jerks forward one last time, fingers going tight in Patrick’s hair, and comes down his throat.

Patrick pulls off, coughing into his fist. He looks wrecked, face red and hat off, mouth and chin slick with spit. He wipes his wrist across his face and pushes himself up, eyes locked on the ground. He looks small.

Pete does his jeans back up, hands shaky. He doesn’t think about Jeanae and he doesn’t think about the look on Patrick’s face. He’s tired of being a disappointment.

“Can we go now?” Patrick asks.

His voice is rough, a little raw. He dusts his knees off, but dirt still clings to the wet denim stubbornly. He looks guilty; everything he's been doing written across his face. Pete swallows, his tongue too thick in his mouth as he tries to speak.

“That’s not what I brought you out here for,” he says eventually. Patrick laughs.

“Right.” He shakes his head, tugging his hat back in place. When he looks up, his face is still red, his mouth in a thin line. There’s a pine needle sticking to his cheek, sticky with sap and sweat. “I’m the only dude you know that’ll suck you off, right? Is that it?”

“I’m not gay,” Pete says, too loud. It bounces off the trees, echoing into his head. He’s not. He’s fucking _not_. Patrick laughs again, but it sounds more like choking.

“Right, that’s why I can still taste your fucking dick.” He rubs a hand over his face, presses the heel of his thumb against his eye. “That’s why you picked me up at a gay bar five fucking months ago.”

“I didn’t know it was a gay bar,” Pete snaps. His hands are still shaking, even when he balls them into fists.

“That’s not the point!” Patrick shouts. He shoves at him.. “The fucking point is that you’re a goddamn closet case and I’m the only faggot you know.”

Pete punches him, knuckles connecting with his jaw. It feels like a bomb going off in Pete’s head. Patrick jerks to the side, stumbling back a few steps, staring at his hand like he’s surprised even himself. Pete’s so pissed off he’s seeing red. When Patrick swings at him again, he’s not expecting it. It knocks him back into a tree, bark and branches digging into his skin. He curses, and Patrick’s on him faster than he can react, furious and fighting.

“Fuck you,” Patrick shouts.

He lands a solid blow to Pete’s gut, stealing his breath away. He’s angry, but Pete’s stronger, and he stumbles back when Pete headbutts him. It’s reckless and it hurts. The tender skin above Patrick’s eye burst open, blood turning his eyebrow rusty brown where it gets caught.

“I don’t know what your fucking problem is,” Pete gasps, tackling him down breathlessly. He locks his thighs around Patrick’s hips, fisting his hand in Patrick’s jacket. His knuckles are red, from the cold or from slamming them into Patrick’s face, Pete doesn’t know. He can feel Patrick’s fading hard on against him. It makes bile rise up in his throat.

“My problem,” Patrick says, trying to free himself from Pete’s grip, “is that I thought you were something fucking special and it turns out you’re just an asshole.” Pete wants to laugh but he can’t find it anywhere in his chest.

“What the fuck made you think that?”

“You were my first time, asshole,” Patrick spits. He wraps his hand around Pete’s wrist, digging his nails in. It hurts, sharp and violent, but Pete doesn’t let go, even as a nail split his skin.

“Pro tip: don’t go home with a fucking stranger at a bar and expect romance.”

Pete punches him again for good measure, the feeling of Patrick’s cheek under his fist freeing. He’s going to have to wrap his hand. It’s already throbbing. Patrick rubs his face when Pete climbs off of him, mouth swelling at the edge. He’s going to have a black eye, and judging from the tenderness on the side of his own face, so is Pete. 

“We’re going home,” Pete says. Patrick doesn’t argue.

On the way back, Patrick keeps touching his mouth, reopening the wound at the edge. Pete can see the shine of blood on his fingertips, his knuckles aching in sympathy. The sun is rising behind them, gold and amber and new. Pete runs from it like it’ll set him on fire, speeding back home.

“This didn’t happen,” Pete says as they go through Buffalo Grove an hour and a half later. It hurts to talk, his head aching from where Patrick’s knuckles had connected. Patrick snorts. It’s a wet, humorless sound.

“Of course it didn’t.” He rubs away the blood from the corner of his mouth with his wrist and wipes it on his jeans. It leaves a thin, rusty smear behind. “So what are we telling the guys? Fuck, what do I tell my mom?”

Patrick tugs at his hair anxiously before letting his head drop against the window. His eyes are squinched shut in a way that has to hurt. Pete takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Joe’s already been on his case about Patrick. This isn’t what he needs right now.

“We tell everyone we ran into a problem at a show,” Pete says eventually. “We went to Milwaukee to check out a local band and there were skinheads. We got out before it got too bad.”

Patrick nods. His breath is making the window fog, ghosting out into an empty speech bubble. When the sun’s all the way up, Pete can see the swelling starting under his eye, red and quickly turning purple. It’s not as great now as it had been then, the evidence of what they’d done written out across Patrick’s face.

Pete pulls up in front of Patrick’s house, reluctant to let the kid go, even after all the bullshit. When Patrick’s gone, it’ll just be him again, locked up inside his head without any distractions. He clenches his fists on the steering wheel as he bites the bullet.

“Stay,” he says softly.

“You’ve actually got to be kidding me,” Patrick grits out between clenched teeth.

“Don’t, okay?” Pete runs a hand through his hair, trying to ease the stress out. It’s greasy, sliding across his fingers and slithering through them, coiling back into tight curls. “I just. I don’t want to be alone.”

“You literally just beat the shit out of me,” Patrick says, hissing as it upsets his swelling lip. “What the fuck do you think it matters to me what you want?”

“Because you’re a good dude.” Because, really, Patrick is. It goes to show how stupid and young he is, all good and noble all the way into his soft, pudgy insides. “Because I’m a little fucked up in the head and I already jumped off my roof once this morning.”

“Jesus.” Patrick kicks the glove box, the sound like a muffled gunshot. He’s red in the face, dark spots starting to show under his eyes. He’d never gone to sleep. The sun is all the way up, and Pete can see the wrinkles in Patrick’s jacket, see the dirt that’s still clinging to his knees. “Fine. Whatever. Fucking—I don’t care anymore.” Patrick slumps into his seat and crosses his arms over his chest, a petulant but willing captive.

Pete goes home.

The house is empty when he leads Patrick in, his parents at work, Andrew and Hilary at friends’ places. Patrick’s shoulders are up to his ears as he follows Pete to his room, head bowed like a kicked puppy. He knows his way to Pete’s room but stays three paces behind anyway.

In retrospect, this is almost worse than being alone. The silence hurts, sharp like glass and just as brittle as Patrick sits on the floor by the door, as far away from the bed as he can get. He keeps his legs criss-crossed Indian style under him, head rocked back against the wall. There’s blood on his shirt collar.

 _Like I’m going to sleep with him sober_ , Pete thinks. He doesn’t think about the last few hours. He’s going to store them away and forget about them, just like he’s forgotten about everything else.

Pete kicks off his shoes and takes off his shirt. Pine needles rain down from it, make his room smell sweet and sticky. He wonders if Patrick’s got them in his clothes too, pricking into his back and thighs. Wonders if he should offer the shower, or a change of clothes.

If it were Joe, Pete would be down to his underwear, checking out his battle scars and flaunting them proudly. But this dude’s seen his dick. It’s different. Pete squirms as he touches the buckle of his belt, uncomfortable in his skin like he never is. Patrick’s tongue slides over the blood on his lip, and Pete pulls his hand back.

“The bathroom’s next door,” he says finally. Patrick looks up at him blankly. “So you can...” Pete waves a hand at his face. The stupid pine needle is still riding along the curve of his cheek. “I think I have clothes that’ll fit you.”

“I could have taken a shower at home,” Patrick says as he pushes himself to his feet. Pete ignores him, rifling through his closet instead.

He hands Patrick his old sweats from bootcamp. They’re navy blue and a few sizes too big, long and still a little stiff. Once he’d gotten home, he’d refused to wear them, sick when he’d even thought about the stupid fucking place at all. He draws the line at sharing his underwear, but he tosses the sweats and a prototype Arma Angelus shirt at Patrick and turns his back. He won’t be asking for either back.

It doesn’t take long for Patrick to leave. Pete hears the shower running soon after, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he takes his jeans off. He jerks on a clean pair of boxers and paces the room, waiting for Patrick to finish.

Pete feels like he’s on tenterhooks as he waits. He hasn’t slept in too long and he can’t remember what pills he’s taken and hasn’t taken. He wants a fucking beer or a bottle of Jack, or maybe a blunt. Anything to take the edge off. Something falls in the bathroom, the sound of it breaking through the wall, and Pete’s on his feet, heading in before he can stop himself.

Patrick’s got a bruise on his side the size of Pete’s fist, curved up under his ribs and purple on the outside already. His skin is damp, pink and blotchy from the heat. He looks up, startled from where he’s picking up Pete’s mess of orange bottles. The pills inside rattle as the bottles roll across the floor.

“I slipped,” Patrick says quietly. He’s holding Pete’s Clopixol his thumb over Pete’s carefully scrawled handwriting.

“I wasn’t actually joking when I said my head’s fucked up,” Pete replies. He plucks the bottle from Patrick’s hand and places it carefully back on the sink.

“Antipsychosis?” Patrick asks. He’s in his underwear, the legs of them sticking to his damp thighs. He bends, and the fabric clings to his ass, stretched tight. Pete looks away.

“I’m bipolar,” he says. He picks up two more bottles and arranges them carefully. He’s batshit insane. Someone should put a warning label on him. “Sometimes I need them to get rid of the paranoia.”

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says. It sounds sincere. He hands Pete a bottle of sleeping pills and Pete takes two out, shrugging as he brings his hand up to his mouth.

“Yeah, well.” He swallows the pills dry before screwing the cap on and setting the bottle next to the tap. “Can’t fix crazy, right?”

Patrick stays quiet, tugging the sweat pants on shyly and wincing when the waistband presses into a bruise. Pete almost feels sorry.

Patrick takes up his spot by the door again, his wet hair leaving dark marks on the carpet and on the legs of the sweats as it drips. Pete thinks maybe he’s trying to stay away from the crazy, now, instead of the angry.

“How long?” Patrick asks after a long pause. Pete slumps down onto his mattress, the sheets cool and soft under his hands.

“Since I was twelve,” Pete answers honestly.

He can remember being young and terrified, locked inside his closet and screaming to get the anxiety out, the buzz of mania making him feel like his bones were trying to vibrate right out of his body. He could nearly see them, white under his skin, and it scared him more. He remembers his mother crying, remembers beating his head against the wall until he’d passed out, exhausted and crazy. Then all he remembers is the radio silence of pills.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says again, like it’ll make any difference. Pete shrugs and tries to tell himself it’s the truth.

He feels the Ambien sinking into him, weighting his arms down and creating lapses in his head. He blinks and Patrick’s closer, still on the floor but not touching the wall. He blinks again and the sun seems brighter around him, making the room glow. One more time, and then Patrick’s standing in front of him, pushing him down gently.

“What’re you doing?” He mumbles, body too heavy to fight the pressure.

“You’re falling asleep sitting up,” Patrick whispers back. “Just lay down.”

When Pete feels the mattress under him, solid and comforting, he locks lazy fingers around Patrick’s wrist and tugs weakly. He’s so fucking tired. Patrick lays next to him, tucked carefully in on himself, and Pete remembers waking up to him, curled around him like they fit together. His chest hurts for a moment. He’s so tired.

Patrick doesn’t fight when Pete pulls him closer, one arm wrapped around the solid barrel of his chest, and Pete’s thankful for it. When he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he’s holding Jeanae again, even though everything is all wrong. Patrick smells like Pete’s shampoo and Pete’s Irish Spring, and a little like evergreens and copper. He’s thick and warm and so, so still. Pete’s head stops spinning, just for a moment.

\---

When Pete wakes up, he’s surprised to see that Patrick’s still there. He’s lying very still, hand curled around Pete’s bicep, eyes shut. He’s asleep, breath soft and even as it blows against Pete’s collarbones.

Objectively speaking, he’s kind of attractive. Pete can see girls going after him for his baby round cheeks or his thick, pink mouth. He can see people being into him for his personality or some shit like that. He’s kind of chubby, not really thin enough for it to be puppy fat anymore, but Pete’s fucked around with worse. There’s a second of panic, deep rooted in his chest as he compares the white, white, white of Patrick’s skin against the darkness of his own. He’s about to jerk away when Patrick opens his eyes, thin slivers of blue that pin him down.

“How did you know?” He demands instead.

This is vital. This is the most important fucking question he’s ever asked in his life. Patrick blinks sleepily at him, lips curling around a yawn. Pete grabs his face, fingertips digging in at the tender hollows of his temples, and shakes him.

“How did I know what?” Patrick asks, voice low with sleep and distorted around Pete’s fingers. He tries to squirm his way out of Pete’s grip. He’s still holding onto Pete’s bicep.

“That you’re gay.” The word falls like a bomb. Pete feels the explosion in the pit of his stomach, nerves racketing back up to where they were before he fell asleep. He’s wide awake.

“Liking dick might have been a sign,” Patrick says. For as light as the words are he stutters over them, eyes locked just south of Pete’s.

“Did you ever fuck a girl?” Pete asks. When Patrick doesn’t answer, Pete shakes him again. “Did you ever fuck a girl?”

“I tried,” Patrick admits. He’s turning embarrassment pink, skin heating up under Pete’s hands. “It didn’t feel right, so I stopped.”

“And being with dudes, that feels right to you?” Pete’s not thinking about Jeanae or the handful of girls he’s fucked around with. He’s not letting it sink in, because he can’t. He fucked them and he liked it, and nothing is going to take that away from him.

“Being with _you_ feels right to me.” Patrick shoves Pete away, stronger than he looks, and tries to roll off the bed. Pete stops him, grabs his arm and hauls him back in. Their chests press together. Patrick’s free arm is trapped under him, his knees knocking into Pete’s.

“Let me go!”

“Stay,” Pete says. He wants—he needs—he has to know what’s going on inside his head, needs to know how to fix himself, and Patrick’s the only person who understands, the only person who knows.

Patrick kisses him, smashes his mouth against Pete’s where it’s still tender and sore. It makes Pete recoil as much as it turnshim on. He finds himself on his back, Patrick a solid weight on top of him. He can’t run.

“If you don’t want it, push me away,” Patrick says, lips against Pete’s skin. He sounds young and terrified. “If you don’t want it, stop me.”

Patrick’s hands slide down Pete’s chest, fingertips skimming along his skin like brands. Pete can’t move. He’s frozen in place, hands hovering over Patrick’s hips, wrists tight enough to snap. He’s so, so sober, head clear like it hasn’t been for days, but he doesn’t shove Patrick away. He doesn’t shove Patrick away. Patrick slides a thigh between Pete’s, the soft cotton of his sweats brushing the inside of Pete’s calves, raising the hairs there. When Patrick’s knee presses up behind his balls, Pete feels himself starting to get hard.

“I’m not gay,” he says, voice trembling. Patrick rocks his leg and Pete clenches his jaw against the sensation.

“It’s not the worst thing in the world,” Patrick says. He runs his tongue across the low sweep of Pete’s throat, sure of himself like hasn’t been before. “You get off to guys. Big fucking deal. You don’t have to be gay for that.”

Pete closes his eyes as Patrick’s hand slips into his shorts, warm and rough and large. Patrick’s mouth skids against Pete’s jaw, and Pete can feel Patrick’s heartbeat in his own chest, fast and erratic. He’s scared as hell. At least Pete’s not the only one.

“Look at me,” Patrick says quietly. He wraps his hand around Pete’s cock and squeezes. It feels so good, all the way down into his bones. Pete spreads his legs, pressing up against Patrick’s thigh. “Look at me.”

Pete opens his eyes as Patrick strokes him slowly, thumb brushing up against the head of Pete’s dick. When Pete shifts again, he can feel Patrick’s hard on against his leg, heavy and thick. It freaks him the fuck out.

Like he knows, Patrick presses down on Pete’s chest with his free hand, holding him down. He rocks his hips slowly, the long slide of his dick against Pete’s thigh making Pete’s heart speed up. His own cock jerks in Patrick’s hand.

“You like this,” Patrick says. He shudders as Pete lifts his leg, as he grinds down.

Pete could end this now. He could knee Patrick in the balls, shove him off and run away. He doesn’t have to do this. A large part of him wants to do it, wants to get the fuck out and lock himself in the bathroom until Patrick leaves.

But then Patrick says, “You can fuck me.”

He says it like he means it, like he’d turn over at a word. Pete hasn’t actually gotten laid for a long fucking time, and no one has to know what he does. No one has to fucking know.

“Are you going to?”

“There’s lotion in the dresser,” Pete says in lieu of a real answer. Patrick looks at him for a long moment before climbing off. Pete mourns the loss of his hand, but it gives him room to breathe. Gives him room to think.

When Patrick comes back he takes his sweats off, kicking his boxers along with them onto the floor. Pete sees his dick bob, red and ugly, and he has to look away. Patrick crawls on top of him again, the heat from the insides of his thighs against Pete’s hips scalding.

“Take your pants off,” Patrick says, lifting up. His cock sticks out from under the hem of his shirt, hard and unavoidable.

Pete shimmies out of his shorts, kicking them off the end of the mattress. Above him, Patrick’s screwing off the top of the lotion, smearing it across his hand. Pete can barely watch as he reaches behind himself, but he hears the stuttered gasp as the first finger pushes in, knows exactly what he’s doing.

He remembers watching Jeanae finger herself, remembers thinking it was kind of hot. Patrick’s awkward, biting down against his lip to keep quiet, arm stretched around himself at a strange angle. He flinches, eyes falling shut. His teeth sink deeper into his lip. Pete feels the second thoughts creeping up on him at an alarming speed.

“I don’t—”

“Hang on.” Patrick’s arm jerks, and fuck. Fuck. He’s fucking himself open, legs splayed open over Pete’s. Before Pete can move away, Patrick’s pulling his fingers out and reaching for the lotion again.

His slick hand on Pete’s cock feels great, fucking fantastic. It's all heat and pressure, holding him still as Patrick lines himself up and begins to sink slowly down. His face is screwed up in a grimace, unattractive and so fucking hot all at once.

He’s tighter than the girls were, almost painful as he inches down so, so slow, until he’s sitting on Pete’s dick. His balls rest on Pete’s stomach, heavy and strange. He’s still for a long time, clenched down around Pete’s cock like a vice. His fingers open and close on Pete’s chest, breath stuttering.

When he lifts himself back up onto his knees, it’s excruciating, a slow motion pull that makes all the heat in Pete’s stomach coil thick and heavy. He comes down quicker, ass slapping against Pete’s thighs, and Pete lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Pete grabs at Patrick’s hips, sinks his fingers into the soft skin and lets himself lay back as Patrick rides him. It’s so— it’s so _good_. Patrick’s tight, tight, tight around him, bouncing like he’s in a goddamn porno, head thrown back, hands clutching at Pete’s wrists. Pete watches his dick bounce along with him and groans.

Pete thrusts up into him, and the bed creaks shrilly as Patrick moans, deep enough that Pete feels the rumble of it through his own skin. Patrick’s thighs are trembling, slick with sweat where they’re pressed to the outside of Pete’s. Pete yanks him down, holds him in place as he fucks up into him, the wet sound of his cock sliding in and out filthy and loud in the stillness of the room.

Patrick frees one hand to jerk himself off, pulling at his cock in time to Pete’s thrusts. The wet head slips through his fist, shiny and red. Pete can’t stop watching, can’t look away as precome oozes down over Patrick’s fingers. It drips down onto Pete’s stomach. Pete shoves up against him, thinks _I’m fucking this stupid kid bare_ , and comes inside him.

Patrick keeps rocking against him, riding him through his climax. It makes Pete shake, his oversensitive dick twitching as Patrick moans again. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and jerks himself once, twice, three more times before he goes still, come splattering hot and wet across Pete’s chest.

It almost hurts, Pete’s soft dick slipping out of the tight grip of Patrick’s ass. Pete wipes himself off with the corner of the sheet, grimacing. He sees the shining, damp trail of his come sliding down the inside of Patrick’s thigh, and his cock gives one more heroic twinge.

Patrick reaches for his underwear, wincing as he pulls them on. He hovers at the end of the bed, arms crossed low over his stomach, waiting. Pete rubs a hand over his eyes. He’s tired again, loose and dizzy.

“If we’re going to do this,” he says eventually, voice like lead, “no one ever knows.”

“So we’re going to, what?” Patrick asks. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t looked up. “Are we going to be, like...” He trails off, and Pete doesn’t have to look at him to see the hot pink flush climbing across his nose.

“You’re not my fucking girlfriend, Stump,” Pete answers testily. He drops his arm and looks over. He immediately feels like an asshole because Patrick’s face looks so fucking devastated. "Look, we’re not going to hold hands and talk about our future and adopt fucking puppies together, okay? But if you want something out of me, this is what you’re going to get. Deal?”

Patrick’s silent for a long moment, staring at the mattress. When he looks up, Pete knows he’s in.

“Deal.”

\---

Pete avoids Patrick even more at practices. He keeps to his side of the basement and does his thing, ignores Patrick as thoroughly as possible. But when everyone else leaves, he shoves Patrick down on the couch and kisses him until they’re both breathless, unzips his jeans and closes his eyes and lets Patrick do whatever he wants.

It works, it gives them both what they want without drawing attention to them. As long as they keep acting normal, no one will know. As long as they keep acting like they hate each other, no one will think anything is going on.

It’s solid for a few weeks. But then Joe latches onto him and drags him upstairs in the middle of a song, guitar still bouncing around his thighs. He punches Pete in the shoulder. Pete’s flabbergasted.

“What is your _problem_?” Joe asks. He sounds just as frustrated as Pete feels. “What did Patrick do to you to piss you off so much?”

“What?” Pete can’t breathe. His heart stutters in the confines of his chest, a sharp doubletime that leaves him breathless.

“We’re not stupid, okay? Me and Andy, we know you, man. You don’t _do_ personal space.. But you avoid Patrick like he’s contagious.” Joe runs a hand through his hair, the bleach blonde splitting apart around his fingers. “What’s the deal? If you genuinely don’t like him, we can find someone else.”

Fuck, Pete thinks, panicking. Patrick’s better than all of them combined. Pete doesn’t want to lose that, can’t. Not when he’s getting ready to hedge all of his bets on them. Joe’s watching him expectantly, waiting for his excuse. Pete shakes his head and puts on his biggest grin.

“He hit on Jeanae once,” Pete lies smoothly. Joe raises an eyebrow, suspicious. Patrick had always been perfunctorily polite to her, but usually stayed out of her space. “It’s not cool.”

“You’re such a headcase,” Joe says. “Are you going to be cool with him? Do you want to—?”

Pete shakes his head. His mind is racing. Patrick’s smart enough to play along with any story Pete tells. He’ll go with it if Joe says something to him.

“All I want is an apology, dude,” he says, forcing a laugh. He shoves Joe’s head back with the heel of his palm. “Seriously. That’s it.”

When they get back into the basement, Andy’s talking to Patrick. Patrick isn’t looking at him, isn’t saying anything at all. Fuck. Pete watches, breath held, as Joe goes up to them and bumps Patrick’s shoulder with his own. He throws a look over his shoulder at Pete before whispering to him. Patrick looks amused as he picks his way across the basement. He holds his hand out.

“I’m sorry I hit on your ex-girlfriend. It won’t happen again,” he says. voice heavy with sarcasm.

Pete is hyper-aware of the others watching him. He tries to think about what he’d do if it were Joe, if it were anyone else at all. He knocks Patrick’s hand away and pulls him into a loose, one-armed hug. He thumps Patrick’s back with his fist and pulls back, jerky.

“Next time, I’ll punch your lights out,” he warns. Patrick snorts. It’s unattractive in every way possible, but it still makes Pete’s grin a little more real.

For the rest of practice, he makes an effort to get into Patrick’s space, to throw an arm around his shoulders during breaks. He weathers Andy’s stare and the anxiety building up in his chest. If ignoring Patrick isn’t going to work, isn’t going to throw them off, Pete will be his best fucking friend instead.

When June hits, Pete bursts into Patrick’s basement, arms loaded down with enough doughnuts to choke a cop. He barges up to Joe and dumps the whole lot onto his lap before throwing himself at Patrick.

“We,” he announces, arm draped casually over Patrick’s shoulders, “are going on tour.”

“No way,” Joe says from the couch. He’s got half a jelly filled in his mouth, and red jam leaks down his chin as he speaks.

“Way, you filthy animal.” Pete drags Patrick to the couch in a headlock, snagging a custard doughnut and shoving it into the kid’s mouth. It squishes in his fingers, chocolate and custard smearing across Patrick’s face. “Eat up, Stump, so your mom thinks I’m taking care of you.”

“I—How did you even swing that?” Joe asks. He takes pity on Patrick and pries Pete’s arm away from his throat, yanking him down onto the couch next to him. Patrick wipes at his face with his hoodie sleeve, cream smearing across the fabric.

“It pains me to announce that Arma Angelus is no more,” Pete says. He’d gotten the email—an _email_ , after four years he deserved more than that—two nights ago. Since then he’d been in overdrive, transferring their plans into something useful to Fall Out Boy. “But, after some creative letters to the bars we were supposed to play were delivered, I got half the tour in our name.”

“Dude.”

Patrick’s fingers are in his mouth, tongue sweeping across them to lick the powdered sugar off. There’s a smear of custard near his hairline that Pete doesn’t plan on telling him about. His eyes are wide, impressed. He hasn’t been around long enough to field out Pete’s crazy.

“I know, I know,” Pete says brightly. “I’m a god.”

“And so humble,” Joe deadpans. He’s hoarding the jellies. Pete kicks him and liberates one from the stash. Ungrateful little shit.

“Does Andy know?” Patrick asks.

He’s got his music face on, the one Pete sees when they’re writing, and it’s kind of—it makes Pete think about the slide of slick skin under sheets and the present rush of heat in his belly. They’re going to have new material before the night’s through.

“When are we supposed to go?” Joe asks.

“Start of July,” Pete answers around a mouthful of doughnut. Joe squishes his nose up at the mess on Pete’s tongue. “Five states, and your precious little heads will be back just in time for school.” Joe flips him off, but Patrick’s looking like he’s stuck between excited and hurling. “Possibly, you should figure out how to tell your moms.”

Later, after discussing all the ways to convince Joe’s mother to let him go, Mrs. Stumph asks them to stay for dinner and Pete agrees even though his stomach roils at the thought of more food. His fingers are sticky with glaze, mouth almost sickly sweet inside. Beside him Joe turns green. The doughnut box has somehow managed to empty itself into their stomachs between their excited chatter.

“Patricia,” Pete calls as they climb the stairs. His stomach feels like lead. He finds her in the kitchen wearing an apron and pot holder gloves. It’s weird in the way that Pete’s only seen in television. He tries to picture his own mother like this but blanks out. “My favorite mother surrogate.”

“Pete,” Patricia says, amused, hands on her hips.

Patrick says she likes him but Pete’s always been weird about parents. In the back of his mind he’s always wondering if she knows what he does to her baby boy when she’s not home. He wonders if she’d send him to jail.

“Dinner smells fantastic,” he says and throws an arm around her small waist. She laughs, charmed. “How about you keep me and send Patrick home to Momma Wentz?”

“How about you sit down," Patricia replies, "and I won’t make you clean.” She shoos him away, swiping at his head with one of the gloves. Pete settles in at the table next to Joe and tries to write a quick script in his head to convince her to let Patrick head out for two months.

Dinner actually is great. It’s lasagna, made from scratch. He can taste the hours spent on it with each forkful that he shovels into his mouth. Pete’s mom hasn’t made anything that doesn’t go into a microwave in months, too busy keeping up with Hillary and Andrew to do much else. Pete’s so engrossed in his meal that he forgets his mission until Joe steps on his foot.

“So, Patricia,” Pete starts around a mouthful of garlic bread. “How do you feel about me? I mean, really feel about me?”

Patricia raises a delicate eyebrow skeptically. She looks so much like Patrick that it’s frightening. Pete wipes his mouth with the napkin spread out over his lap and leans in, elbows resting on the hardwood table. He’s been dealing with moms for years. “There’s the chance for us to go on a tour.”

“Pete...”

“It’s after school lets out, and Patrick will be back before it starts.” Pete puts on his best parent face and leans in closer. “I’ve been on tours before. We’re not going far, and Patrick can call every night before or after the shows. I won’t leave his side, if you want.” He smiles at Patrick, bares his teeth. It feels more sharp than it probably should be. “I’ll make sure he goes to sleep at a decent hour and everything.”

Patricia chews slowly, looking from Pete to Patrick. She looks doubtful, but she eventually tightens her lips and says, “I swear, Pete, if anything happens to him...”

“I’ll take care of him,” Pete cuts in. He throws a grin at Patrick, and Patrick goes pink to his hairline. “Promise.”

\---

Pete talks Chris into letting them use the van. It takes a lot of goading and way more beer, but at the end of the night, they're both wasted and Pete's got the keys to Arma's baby in his back pocket.

It's six o'clock in the morning when he goes to round Joe up, knocking as obnoxiously as possible on his window from the outside. He sees Joe shoot up in bed and laughs when the idiot tumbles onto the ground. From inside, Joe flips him off and collapses down onto the floor.

Damn kids, Pete thinks. Always sleeping in.

He pounds on the window until Joe lets him in, crawling through easily. His arms ache from hanging onto the side of the house, deep down into his muscles every time he moves. He jangles the keys in front of Joe's face gleefully.

"Do you know what these are?" He asks. Joe groans and tries to take them from him. He's still sleep slow, fingers ghosting past the keychain when Pete pulls it away from him. "Nuh uh. Take a guess."

"It's six in the morning. I don't fucking care what they are." Joe's hair is standing on end, dirty. A solid inch of brown roots are showing through.

"These are our way out of Illinois," Pete says anyway. He flicks Joe's forehead. "Now put some fucking pants on, man. We're burning daylight."

"I hope fire ants eat you," Joe grumbles, tripping his way to his closet. There's a scrawl of something over the small of his back. Sharpie, smeared into his skin from sweating. Pete knows the handwriting.

"You and Patrick are pretty close," Pete says, biting the inside of his cheek when Joe looks over his shoulder. He's frowning.

"We have a lot in common," Joe says. His shorts barely hit below his knees. He looks like a massive fucking dork. "He helps me with French and I help his with geography."

"We called it studying when I was in high school, too," Pete says. The words disappear when Joe yanks a shirt over his head.

"Dude, what the fuck are you talking about?" Joe jerks open the door to his room and shuffles out. Pete follows him, all the way out to the car.

"Nothing," Pete says tightly as he slides into the driver's seat.

The drive to Patrick's place is silent. Pete feels tense all over, annoyed. He doesn't know why he's getting so worked up over it. It's not like he's jealous or whatever. It's stupid to get mad about, but the part of him that's itching for a fight isn't listening to reason.

Patrick is already awake, the little freak. Pete can see his light on from the street, the shadow of him moving behind the curtain. He doesn't bother getting out of the car, just blares the horn until someone across the street yells at him to shut up. Patrick's head peeks out of the window, shoulders just wide enough to brace him against the frame. Pete waves and presses a tight smile to the window.

Seriously. Burning daylight. Andy is probably already at the van.

"This couldn't have waited until the afternoon?" Patrick asks as he slides into the back seat. He's wearing an Arma shirt. Pete tries not to laugh. 

"There's no time like the present," Pete says, forcing cheer into his voice. This is a happy occasion. He's not going to let anything ruin it.

As predicted, Andy's waiting at the storage garage, leaning against the siding. He's eating a bagel, picking idly at the seeds in it. He waves when Joe does, yawning into his shoulder. Pete's betting on a Halo tournament that went late.

"Gentlemen," Pete says as he's stepping out of the car, "I am about to present to you the vehicle that has been a part of my family for years."

Pete fiddles with the keys until he finds the one for the storage unit, holding it up triumphantly. Joe and Patrick crowd behind him curiously as he undoes the padlock, heads thumping against Pete's back when he leans over to open the door. Next to them, Andy finishes his bagel quietly. At least half of the band is excited, Pete thinks as he yanks the door up.

"Well?" He asks, fists on his hips. The old beast takes up the whole unit, her tired, sagging bumper almost too far out. Pete's missed her. "What do you think?"

"This is the van?" Joe asks, his disappointment abundantly clear.

"Don't knock it." Pete pats the bumper affectionately, the grime sticking to his fingers almost immediately.

And, okay, maybe the beast isn't in as good of shape as it used to be, but it still runs solid. It's a giant old white number, the paint chipping on the tire wells and the doors. It roars kind of unpleasantly when Andy starts it, spitting out thick tufts of black smoke as he backs out of the garage, but it motors on out into the driveway smoothly. In the sunlight, the dents in the sides are more pronounced.

“This thing got Arma through most of our tours,” Pete boasts. Like proof, the inside still smells like Chris’s socks. “Air it out, fill it up, and it’ll be good as gold.”

“Do you even have insurance on this thing?” Patrick asks.

He prods at a tire with the toe of his sneaker. And, no, he doesn’t, but as long as everyone keeps the speeding down and avoids telephone poles, they should be fine. Pete waves him off and climbs into the middle row through the side door.

“Andy, you’re the voice of reason,” he says, voice muffled through the sleeve of his hoodie. It smells like- oh, there it is. He chucks the rotting, abandoned sandwich out the window, ignoring Joe’s shouts from outside. “Yea or nay to the van?”

“Febreeze the shit out of it, get it an oil change, and we should be good.” Andy cuts the engine and pockets the keys. He’s been on more shitty tours than even Pete has, traveled in worse vehicles. He really is the voice of reason, though, more mature than any of the rest of them can ever hope to be. If he says they’re good to go, they are..

“We’re going on tour,” Patrick says quietly, his voice floating in through the window.

When Pete pokes his head out to see him, he catches the disbelieving look Patrick’s sharing with Joe. They’ve only got a week of school left, and then it’s time to hit the road. Pete knows Patrick’s already packed, his duffel bag shoved under his bed like a stash of porn. He’d been there when Patrick had loaded it up, relaxed against Patrick’s mattress as Patrick fretted around the room, taking stock of his things. There’s a lot of junk in the bag, probably not enough underwear or entertainment, but Pete’s going to let him learn how to do it on his own. Patrick’s too damn hard-headed to listen to his advice anyway.

“We’re going to be babysitting for a month,” Andy says under his breath to Pete. He’s watching Patrick and Joe too, his eyes tracking them as Joe tackles Patrick to the ground, fist pressing into Patrick’s scalp for a noogie.

“You love it, man,” Pete whispers back.

Andy shrugs and ducks out, shouting over the noise about ordering lunch. Pete pats the shitty vinyl seats and feels the excitement bubbling up in his chest as he remembers the feel of the road moving under him. He’s ready.

\---

Being on the road is familiar. Pete watches the cars fly by, blurs across the highway in red and black and silver. The van is big on the outside, but with the equipment crammed into the back and part of the middle row of seats, there's little room for them. Pete's pressed against the door, handle digging into his bare side and window down to let the summer air in, the heat from the four of them stifling. On his other side, Patrick's jostling his leg, too hot where they're touching to be comfortable. His arm is slick with sweat and it slides against Pete's hip every time he moves. The sky outside is black. Pete wishes for stars.

He remembers being ten, jammed into the back seat of his parents' car with six-year-old Hillary and the car seat with baby Andrew, unable to sit still long enough to see anything but flashes of the front seat and flashes of dark in turn. Andrew used to cry in the car and Hillary used to sing loud enough to make all of them wince. They'd drive for hours with the radio on and the windows down, the city turning into trees and the sky going from powder blue to black to star studded.

The driving drove him crazy, but when he stumbled out of the car early in the morning, the campgrounds took his breath away.

Joe's snoring from the passenger seat, the sound of it low under the hum of Andy's demo tape. He's drumming his thumbs against the steering wheel in time, head bobbing. The sound of it is comforting. Familiar after a few days jammed in together. If Pete closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he's that kid again, waiting for the campgrounds.

He's wound up tight, jerking every time the van hits a pothole. Next to him, Patrick's still shaking his leg, his knee knocking into Pete's. For a while he'd been reading, still and silent and unobtrusive. Then the car sickness had caught up to him, his face going pale under his knit cap, and Pete had confiscated his book. Since then, it's been up and down, up and down, _up and fucking down_ that's getting right up under Pete's skin.

Pete clamps a hand over Patrick's knee and the bouncing stops almost immediately. He sinks his nails into the damp denim of Patrick's jeans, the scritch too soft to hear, and Patrick sits up. His eyes flicker to the rear view mirror. There's a faint blush crawling across his cheeks. Sometimes, Pete forgets he's so young. Forgets what being sixteen is really like.

If he’s lucky, Andy might be able to see the tops of their heads over the amps. Maybe. Pete taps a thumb against the outside of Patrick’s thigh and considers. He stares out the window, car, car tree passing by, headlights and mile markers like streamers off a black ribbon. He slides his hand up, up, up, into the tender junction between Patrick’s thighs and rests it there.

Patrick holds his breath. Pete can feel the tension of his chest, and it freaks him out. He rocks his palm down, zipper catching against the dry skin of the heel. Patrick gets hard under his hand. Car, car, tree, tree. Pete swallows, tries to tell himself that the jerk of his own dick is Pavlovian. Patrick getting a boner means Patrick getting him off. The fact that Pete’s never touched him like this, never touched him on purpose, settles like lead in his stomach.

Patrick is very still. He lets out a shaky breath as Pete reaches for the clasp of his belt, undoing it with sloppy, unsteady fingers. It’s hard because he’s not looking, because all he’s seeing is car, tree, car, car, but if he looks he’ll stop. He’ll pull away and laugh and break something as soon as the van stops. The button is easier, the zipper sliding open without prompting, Patrick’s baby fat gut knocking it down.

Pete never really dated fat chicks. He knows what he looks like—lean and dark and fit from hours of playing soccer in the sun, short but broad enough to make up for it. There's never been a time that he's had to scrape the bottom of the barrel. He feels the softness of Patrick's stomach against the backs of his knuckles as he slides his hands into the loose waist of his boxers.He waits for the revulsion to hit him, but he's still turned on, still ready to go. The demo tape clicks over to the other side. Andy keeps driving.

Pete feels the heat of Patrick’s dick just above his hand, the coarse curls at the base of it familiar enough. Pete watches the road and wraps his fingers around Patrick’s cock determinedly. He’s not—jerking another dude off isn’t totally gay. It’s not. Guys do it all the time when girls aren’t around. Patrick is hot and heavy against his palm, thick and nothing like Pete was expecting. He strokes him off slowly, tries to get used to the weird angle and the silk of his skin and the weight of a dick that’s not his.

“A little reciprocation, Stump,” Pete hisses.

Patrick jerks, hips lifting up off the seat. So, so young. He scrambles to get his hand on Pete’s cock—desperate kid, always so fucking desperate for Pete’s dick—and Pete stills long enough for Patrick to undo his fly. He feels Patrick jump in his hand and then there’s the warm, familiar heat of Patrick’s fingers wrapping tight around the base of Pete’s dick, squeezing the way he knows Pete likes.

Pete shuts his eyes and matches his tempo to Patrick’s, their arms bumping on the downstrokes. He can feel the slickness of precome leaking down the side of Patrick’s cock, making Pete’s sweat-damp palm wet. The heat is sweltering, even the wind coming in doing nothing to ease it. Patrick leans in and mouths at Pete’s throat messily. He licks away the sweat that’s gathering at Pete’s collarbones, his tongue like a brand. Pete arches into it, biting down on his lip. He thumbs the head of Patrick’s dick, feels the dampness there. He can almost pretend it’s like getting himself off.

The van curves around an off ramp, throwing Patrick into him. Pete hears Joe grumbling awake up front, and he whips his hand out of Patrick’s pants like he’s been scalded, heart hammering in his throat. Patrick whines low in his throat but his hand doesn’t stop. If they were alone, he’d probably be blowing Pete by now, sucking him off like it’s all he knows how to do. If they were alone—

Pete shoves his fist into his mouth and bites down on his knuckles as Patrick speeds his hand. He’s close, so close. All it takes it Patrick’s mouth against the soft spot under his ear to get him off, shooting messy and wet into his boxers.

He’s still breathing heavy when he feels Patrick’s arm moving again. It takes him a second to connect the dots, his fuzzy brain stuck somewhere in his lower belly. Patrick sighs, his breath hot and damp against Pete’s throat, finishing himself off. He doesn’t make a sound as he comes, but Pete knows when it happens, sees the familiar signs across Patrick’s face. He looks away, doing up his jeans as they pull into a gas station.

Patrick doesn’t bring it up. They get their chips and sodas and fill up the van, and Joe takes his turn at the wheel as they get back in. Patrick doesn’t say a goddamn word, and Pete feels the relief like it’s a weight.

When they get to the venue, Pete pushes Patrick out of the van and tackles him, knocks him flat to the pavement. He hears Patrick’s shoulders hit with a heavy thud. The part of him that’s been locked up inside a box for the past ten hours feels giddy with the viciousness of it. His boxers stick to his skin and Patrick’s hairline is still damp with sweat. Pete grinds Patrick’s shoulder blades into the ground until Patrick shouts.

He rubs his knuckles into Patrick’s scalp through his fucked up hair, laughing into the summer heat as Patrick flails under him. His legs jerk, all the evidence of what they’d done dried away when Pete bothers to look, hidden under the denim of his pants.

“Dude,” Joe says, prodding Pete with the dirty toe of his sneaker. “We need him.”

“We need your mom,” Pete supplies.

He digs his knuckles in again before climbing up and off, leaving Patrick sprawled across the parking lot like a chalk outline. He’s so full of energy he could pop.

Pete meets with the manager and settles their deal—less than what they really can afford, more than what he was honestly expecting, plus and all the free beer they can legally drink. By the time he’s helped himself to a few cups of the best beer on draft, their equipment is almost entirely set up on the stage.

“Thanks for the help,” Andy says thinly, his eyes narrowed. He’s sweating, thick stains under his arms. Pete shrugs and takes another drink of his beer.

They never do well at twenty-one plus shows. Too many jaded assholes, not enough people into what Patrick’s trying to sell them. If they’re lucky, they won’t get booed off the stage tonight. If they’re really lucky, they might even get a few pity claps.

Patrick’s gone, probably warming up, and Pete finds himself poking around at the bar in his absence, jittery. He’s been gluing himself to Patrick’s side, hanging on him like a bad coat. Joe thinks it’s problem solved, Pete up to his old tricks. Andy watches them, though, keeps track like he’s Patrick’s older brother or something. It’s getting old fast. Pete sucks at his beer and bangs his head on the bar. Jesus, he’s going nuts.

When the lights shut down and the doors open to the public, Pete abandons his beer and climbs onto the stage, side doors be damned.

The crowd is shit. Veteran bar patrons and college girls, a few frat boys tucked up in the corner heckling them. Pete presses his mouth to his mic and introduces them, the static crack of it making his voice sound broken. Patrick is pale next to him, eyes locked on the floor lights as Andy counts them in for their first song.

Someone throws a bottle halfway through the set. It misses Joe’s head by a fraction of an inch, exploding into a sticky mess against the back wall. Pete grips the neck of his bass like it’s the guy’s throat and bites his tongue, a copper burst of blood in his mouth. Patrick sounds so damn young singing. Pete’s stomach roils as he scans the crowd’s faces.

There's a girl by the bar, young enough to be into them, her hair dyed black and green and falling into her face. She looks a little like Jeanae, pixie sharp features and tiny tits and short skirt. She's watching Pete watch her, and Pete grins. He could use a nice girl's touch to take his mind off all of the shit.

He misses girls—the softness of them, the baby powder gentle smells that linger behind their ears and the soft spots behind their knees. Before the whole thing with Patrick—Before, he'd been in and out of beds, collecting names and leaving behind marks of his presence. He's chalking up his failure with Jeanae as stress, remembers all the girls who'd said his name like a prayer and tells himself that they couldn't have all been flukes. That he couldn't have been wrong all this time.

Joe almost falls off the stage, a spill of beer at the edge nearly making him topple to the ground. Some asshole in the front laughs, but before Pete can hop down and knock him out, Patrick's stepping onto the dick's fingers. He grinds his sneaker down into them where they rest on the stage, singing like he has no idea what he's doing.

They have two songs left. The girl at the bar is totally into them—or into Pete, he can't really tell—and Pete can see the cotton candy pink of her panties between her spread thighs. And damn, that's awesome. He winks at her and can see her laugh in the dimness. Same script, same results. It's almost too easy.

When they play their last song, when Patrick belts out the last chorus, Pete kicks over his mic stand, the crash of it echoing in the speakers. They leave the stage with the sound of feedback still ringing against the walls, gear still set up like there's anything left to play. A shitty end to a shitty show.

There's some time to kill before they have to ship out. He heads straight to the bar, eyes on the prize. The others had talked about getting dinner, but Pete's pretty sure he can deal with this girl. He's pretty sure that if he takes her to the bathroom, or out into the alley, he'll be able to fuck her. He hasn't tried since the—since he started whatever with Patrick, but he's feeling it tonight. He can do it.

The girl offers him a beer before Pete even gets there, holding it up to him with a smirk. Pete wraps his hand around hers, grins back and takes his first drink. It tastes like paint but goes down warm. Pete feels it all the way down to the pit of his belly. He leans in and puts his mouth against the soft spot before her ear, pretending to talk over the loud house music that’s taken up the speakers.

“I’m Pete,” he says. When he breathes in, he can smell the chemical stiffness of her hairspray and nothing else.

She skids her cherry red lips over the shell of Pete’s ear and says, “Megan.”

Megan pulls back and downs the rest of her drink. Her lipstick leaves a smear of color at the edge of her glass, raw and red, and she doesn’t bother talking. She just takes Pete’s hand and rests it on the smooth, soft skin of her thigh, right under the silky hem of her skirt. Pete’s dick twitches in his pants. He’s not hard, but he’s pretty fucking sure he can there. He’s standing between her knees, fingers skating over her skin in figure eights. He wonders if she’d let him finger her here, right out in the open, hidden only by the bulk of his own body and the darkness of the bar.

He slides his hand up, the heat between her legs like the sweltering heat outside. His knuckles brush against the wet cotton of her panties, her tits bouncing as she takes a sharp breath. She’s  
going to let him. He rubs his thumb across her, her thighs closing tight around his hips, pressing his belt into his sides. Just as he’s going to slide her underwear to the side, he feels the brunt impact of a fist against his jaw.

It’s the frat asshole from earlier, the one that threw the bottle at Joe. Megan scowls, and from behind him Pete hears _girlfriend_ and _fucking faggot_. His vision goes red.

He throws the first punch, pain exploding across his knuckles as they hit the bones of the guy’s face. He’s been spoiling for a fight for months, and this asshole’s totally going to take the brunt of it. Pete punches him again, the crunch sound of his nose loud even over the music. Megan screams. Pete keeps swinging.

A fist lodges itself into his kidney, knocks his breath out in a burning rush. Another gets him in the mouth, blood sinking inside to choke him, lip splitting around his teeth. A third catches him across the jaw. There’s at least six hands, and that’s bullshit. That’s fucking _bullshit_. He kicks and throws elbows and headbutts someone, his vision going white-black-white for a moment when he reels back.

The adrenaline inside him pulses like a heartbeat, the tiredness that’s been eating away at him dropping off into rage. He’s going to kill these motherfuckers or die trying.

Someone presses full body against his back and Pete snarls—an animal, not himself, not right now. Pete’s about to take him down when he sees Patrick’s stupid hair out of the corner of his eye. Fucking great. Just what he fucking needs.

Still, having an extra pair of hands is nice and Patrick doesn’t stray too far from his back, keeping off the stray blows. Pete jams his fist into the closest guy’s gut once, twice, three times. He locks his arm around the dude’s neck and squeezes until his buddy gets a solid blow into Pete’s throat.

It’s a mess of pain and screaming and the thunder of blood in his ears, and Pete’s still thrumming for all of it when security peels the lot of them apart.

Pete gets dumped into the parking lot, Patrick trailing after him, rubbing at his mouth with the palm of his hand. They security guards give Pete one last warning glare before going back inside, slamming the doors shut behind them with an air of finality. The air is still humid. Pete feels sticky with it, dirty, sweat from the show and sweat from the fight having it out for the most space on his body.

Patrick’s mouth is busted open. It looks as raw as Pete’s feels, blood coating his chin and lip. It’s split in the center and on the right side, nasty and already swollen. He’s got a shiny red spot covering half his cheek that’s probably going to turn purple black soon.

“I’m not made for this shit,” Patrick says. He spits blood, the wet sound of hitting the pavement mixing in with the rush of cars on the road. He stands over Pete, eyes narrowed and asks, “What was that about?”

Patrick didn’t see. He didn’t catch Pete with his hand up Megan’s skirt, doesn’t know that Pete was- doing whatever. Pete’s got a get out trouble card.

“I was fucking around with his girlfriend,” Pete says anyway.

Patrick’s face falls. He clenches his teeth, hurt. Stupid kid, Pete thinks. They’re not a thing. Pete told him that. Pete fucking _told_ him that. Pete doesn’t owe him a goddamn thing.

“Fuck you,” Patrick grits out. He lifts his chin, defiant, and Pete realizes that he’s trying not to cry. Something pulls at his chest as he watches Patrick’s Adam’s apple bob. Pete shoves it away angrily.

“Did you think you were, what, my _boyfriend_?” Pete sneers, shoving himself up. He’s so fucking tired of this. “I’m not gay. I fucking told you that.”

“You were fucking jerking me off four hours ago—” Patrick shouts. Pete lunges, slapping his hand over Patrick’s mouth. He looks around the parking lot in a panic, calculating distances between them and the people loitering at the front.

“Shut up,” he hisses. “Shut the fuck up.”

“Face it—you get off on fucking me.” Patrick jerks away, stumbling backwards. Under the lights of the club, his skin looks yellow and sickly. “Why can’t you just deal with it?”

“I don’t like it,” Pete hisses.

He can see Andy already looking for them by the van. He’s not going to have this conversation with an audience. He locks his fingers around Patrick’s wrist and yanks him down the block, tightening his grip as Patrick struggles against him. When they pass an empty alley, Pete shoves Patrick into it, backing him up against the wall. He fists the damp front of Patrick’s shirt and shakes him. His knuckles ache in time to the beat of his heart.

“You know what you are?” He asks, and it feels vicious before he’s even gotten it out. He likes this kid, he does, he does, he fucking _does_ , but goddamn it. Why couldn’t Patrick just leave it the fuck alone? “You’re a warm body. You’re an easy lay that’s always around. That’s what you fucking are to me.”

Patrick mouth twitches at the sides, crusted with dried blood. Pete can feel the way his breaths are coming in short. If Patrick cries he’ll—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and that pisses him off more than he can say. He feels so tired again, an ache settling in his chest as he watches Patrick pull himself together.

“Bullshit,” Patrick spits. He presses against Pete’s hand, his heartbeat pumping rapidfire against Pete’s knuckles. “That’s fucking bullshit, and you know it. What are you so afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid,” Pete shouts. It bounces off the walls, echoing back at him. It sounds like he’s scared shitless.

“Why can’t you just admit that you like this and that you like me?” Patrick grabs at Pete’s hair, fingers pulling it tight. 

It stings, sharp and uncomfortable, and Pete tightens his own fist in Patrick’s shirt in retribution. He feels like running, like hightailing it out to somewhere that no one knows him, where he can be away from himself and his head and Patrick. Patrick who’s been crawling under his skin since day one. Patrick who won’t let go. Patrick who he—who he—

“You like me,” Patrick says, softer. He leans in slow. Pete’s frozen in place, stuck like he’s been pinned down. Patrick tastes like pennies when he kisses him, mouth painful as it presses the broken insides of Pete’s lip against his teeth.

And Pete—Pete doesn’t stop him. Doesn’t pull away, doesn’t shove him off. He kisses him back until it hurts, inside outside, all of him beaten raw with it. Patrick holds on to him like an anchor. 

They stagger off to the van, Pete leaning against Patrick's shoulder, Patrick prodding at his sore cheek. Pete feels like he's gone through a war. All he wants is to curl up and sleep. Joe sees them first, his eyes going huge as he drops his bag and runs toward them.

"Jesus Christ, what happened to you guys?" He asks as he takes on some of Pete's weight. Pete bristles a little, leaning in closer to Patrick. He's not in the mood to be touched.

"Pete hit on some dude's girlfriend," Patrick says. Pete can feel the stiffness in his shoulders at the words. Joe rolls his eyes.

"Of course," he mutters. "Good news is that we made enough cash to get a room."

"Was that before or after I got my ass kicked?" Pete asks. He dabs at his lip and is unsurprised to see blood on his fingers. If it’s his or Patrick’s, he doesn’t know.

"Probably before," Andy says flatly from the front. He looks entirely unimpressed. Pete winces.

"Well, shit," he says.

"Yeah, well." Joe slides the back door shut before climbing into the passenger's seat. "At least we got the bonus before you fucked it up."

Pete rests his cheek on the window and watches the road as Andy drives. He's itching to take a shower. He feels unclean.

Andy checks them in—Joe and Patrick aren’t old enough, and Pete looks like he's been run through a lawnmower—and when he comes back he takes Patrick's bag away from him. No one offers to help Pete.

Patrick slips into the bathroom before anyone else gets the chance to. There's a mud trail on the carpet from where his jeans had dragged the ground, thin but clear. Andy throws Patrick's bag onto the far bed and Joe climbs in next to it. That's averted at least, Pete thinks. He kicks off his shoes and shucks off his bloody shirt.

"You shouldn't have let him get into a fight," Andy says, voice low. Across the room, Joe's already got his head buried into a pillow, earbuds dark against the sheet. He'll be asleep before Patrick's out of the shower.

"I'm sorry," Pete sneers, fingers curling into a fist. "I should have just told the three guys trying to kick my ass that the kid was off limits."

"You shouldn't have gotten into a fight in the first place!" Andy tugs at his hair, jaw tight. He knows Pete's weak spots in the way that only an old friend can. Pete's shoulders go tense as he waits for it. "You want this thing to be different from Arma? Then you get your shit together and act like a fucking grown up."

The door to the bathroom creaks open and Patrick shuffles out, head down. He's still in his dirty t-shirt and boxers, hair leaving dark spots on the floor around him. There's a cut on his shin that's still bleeding. Whoever has to clean up after them is going to be sorry.

Pete ducks into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. He takes a moment just to enjoy being alone. It’s a novelty to him to crave silence.

When he looks into the mirror, he grimaces. He's got a shiner already started and his chest is mottled with black and blue patches, circling around his back to where he can't see. There's blood smeared across his mouth and down his chin, and it looks like it could be from wiping at it, but he knows it's from Patrick's mouth pressed against his.

He grabs a washcloth and shoves his pants off, stepping into the tub. He turns the water on too hot and stands under it, his skin feeling like it's too small for his body, stretched too tight. He scrubs at his arms and his chest until he's red, all the dirt and the smell of sweat gone.

The water at his feet is pink, swirling down into the drain. He wonders where else he's bleeding from as he rubs at his mouth, clearing it all away. When his fingers have gone wrinkled, Pete shuts the shower head off and reaches for a towel. He doesn't look at himself as he pulls his boxers back on. He leaves his jeans abandoned on the floor. He can already smell them.

Andy is reading, back propped against the wall. He dog ears his page and moves past Pete without a word, the bathroom door closing quietly behind him. Pete wipes a hand over his eyes. He's ready to go to sleep.

"I'm sorry," Patrick says. His face is pressed to Joe's back, the two of them too big to really be in the same twin bed. His hand flits over the cover, hovering over Joe's hip before landing. Pete's nails sink into his palms.

"Shut the fuck up," Pete snaps.

He clicks off the lamp and shoves himself up against the wall. He can hear every creak of the beds, feel it every time Patrick or Joe move. When Andy lays next to him, Pete tenses up. He doesn't sleep. It's something he's used to.

\---

They spend the next day speeding towards a festival in Minnesota. Pete spends most of the dive in the passenger side seat, legs jostling up and down. Andy punches him twice, knuckles sinking into one of Pete’s bruises. It does nothing to drain out the anxious energy eating Pete from the inside out.

“I’m going to strap you to the fucking roof,” Andy threatens, teeth grit. He takes the next corner sharp enough to throw Pete into the door. Shouts drift up from the back, cutting through the tape in the stereo.

“Just because Pete’s being a dick doesn’t mean we need to be punished too,” Joe says, head poking through the gap between the front seats. Pete shoves him away.

“Are we there yet?” Patrick yells, kicking at the back of Pete’s seat. Pete digs his nails into his palm and breathes through his nose. It’s the first thing Patrick’s said all day.

“I swear to god, I’ll stick you up there with him,” Andy yells back. His knuckles are white around the steering wheel. Pete hasn’t seen him truly pissed off since back during Arma days. He doesn’t really want a repeat performance.

Pete spends the rest of the ride in silence, straining to hear the quiet conversation going on behind him. Joe’s doing most of the talking, the even lull of his voice too quiet to make out over the music. Pete clenches his fists. He wants to know what they’re saying, what Patrick’s letting him know.

When they pull into performer parking, Andy kicks them all out and heads for the venue without them to check in. Pete feels like he’s a scolded kid, scuffing at the pavement as Joe and Patrick file out from the back. Patrick doesn’t look at him. Pete tries not to let it get to him.

They drag their equipment to the techs and stand by uselessly as it’s taken away from them. Pete played this festival two years ago with Arma, but the layout changed and it makes him feel disoriented.

“You,” Andy says as he hands Pete his performer’s badge, “are going to stay right fucking here until we perform. And then you’re going to go right back to the van when we’re done.” He turns to Patrick, clipping his badge onto a belt loop of his jeans. Patrick stays still and lets him. “And you are going to check us in at the hotel after the show. Neither one of you are going to leave the hotel room once you’re in it. And if either one of you gets into trouble, I am taking the van back to Illinois, with or without you in it. Got it?”

Pete nods, shrinking into himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Patrick doing the same thing. Pete plunks down onto the pavement and waits. Andy doesn’t fuck around.

When they finally play, Pete sticks to his corner of the stage and lets Patrick do all the talking. He feels like his world is crumbling all around him, and there’s nothing he can do about it. Not a goddamn thing.

The crowd cheers along to them, a few faces in the front familiar. A surprising number of them are singing along, mouths working in time to the feed of Patrick’s voice in his ear. Pete wants this to feel like a victory, wants to feel the rush under his skin that means he’s coming up in the game.

All he can feel is the setting sun in his eyes and the slide of sweat down his back, his bruises screaming. He slams himself into the speakers, throws himself to the ground and plays. It sounds terrible, wrong, but Pete doesn’t really care. Not now. Not when the crowd just yells louder.

After, Pete slinks to the van like he was told to. He needs his meds, the crazy inside him crawling to the surface. All his little orange bottles, they’re stored away at home, waiting for him states away. Pete threads his fingers through his hair and closes his eyes. He feels like he’s going to explode into tiny pieces.

The driver side door jerks open beside him. Pete pulls himself together as best he can and forces a smile at Andy. If it looks as fake as it feels, Andy says nothing. They drive the six blocks to the hotel in silence. This doesn’t feel fun anymore.

Patrick and Joe are standing in front of the hotel, shoving one another. Patrick’s laughing reluctantly, face turned up to the streetlights. Even from the van, Pete can see the nasty cut below his jaw.

“Take care of him,” Andy says lowly, handing Pete a keycard. The room number is scribbled on the back in marker, thick and bleeding into the plastic.

“Yeah. Sure.” Pete climbs out of the van and reaches for his overnight bag. Andy leans over the seat and grabs his wrist, holding him in place. 

“I’m serious, Pete,” he says. He knows something, always does, and Pete hates him a little for it. Pete shakes out of his hold, tightening his fist around the strap of his bag.

“Whatever. See you in the morning.” He heads for Joe and Patrick and throws an arm over Patrick’s shoulders. It upsets something against his ribs, makes him hiss. He hasn’t been this fucked up in years. He doesn’t think about it when Patrick shrugs him off. “Looks like we’re bunk buddies.”

Patrick leads the way to the room, head down. He doesn’t answer when Pete says his name, doesn’t even look up. Pete’s stomach turns as he fits the keycard into the lock.

The room is small, double beds and a dresser taking up most of the floor space. Pete drops his bag and shucks his shirt off, already reaching for his belt. He’s going to take advantage of the shower while he can. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Patrick trying not to watch.

Pete grabs a clean pair of boxers and locks himself in the bathroom. His chest feels tight, lungs working too hard to breathe in. He scrubs the sweat off of him, skin aching at the heat of the water. Something’s got to break soon and he’s terrified that it’s going to be him.

When he steps out of the bathroom, Patrick’s sitting at the end of one of the beds still fully dressed, staring down at his hands. The TV is on playing Adult Swim and making shadows across Patrick’s face as it flickers, the only light on at all. He doesn’t speak as he pulls off his jacket, doesn’t look up as he pushes his jeans down and tugs his t-shirt off carefully.

He’s just as bruised as Pete, but the marks look darker on him, more violent. He really wasn’t made for bar room fights, too small and too soft and too something. Too much. Not enough. He disappears into the bathroom, the water starting up again. The sound of it means bath instead of shower. Pete wonders just how deep those bruises run.

It’s a long time before Pete gets up. He keeps his face pressed to the mattress and tries to block out the way Patrick had looked at him in the alley. His head is just so full of shit. The television keeps playing, commercials bleeding into laugh tracks. When Pete looks up, an hour’s passed. He hasn’t heard anything from the bathroom for a long time. It worries him in the way that a lot of things should but don’t. He doesn’t knock so much as open the door and invite himself in.

Patrick’s laid out in the tub, head against the rim, hair dark and wet against his face. He’s small enough to fit laid flat, but he’s got one knee propped up, kneecap pink and scratched where it shows over the water. He looks tired. Drawn. His mouth is still swollen, the side of his face like a train wreck. He opens his eyes and Pete almost feels guilty.

“Hey,” he says. It’s quiet. Soft.

“Hey,” Patrick says back.

Pete can’t really see all of him, not under the water, but he still sees the way Patrick folds his arms across his lap and over his stomach, the way he lifts up just enough to make himself smaller. That’s probably Pete’s fault too, if he thinks about it. Pete sinks down next to the tub, underwear getting damp in the spillover, and rests his head next to Patrick’s. He’s such a fuck up. Always such a fuck up.

“Are we alright?” Pete asks. Patrick laughs, the sound bouncing off the tiles.

“We’ve never been alright,” he says. The water sloshes as he sits up, some of it falling over the lip of the tub and into Pete’s lap. It’s gone lukewarm, the smell of the hotel shampoo in it overwhelming. “I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Pete says.

He's surprised to find that he means it. Sorry for starting this, sorry for dragging Patrick into his problems, sorry for having problems at all. Sorry that he’s not going to walk away, even if it’s what’s best for both of them.

“Yeah, well.” Patrick slicks his bangs back away from his face, leaning forward onto his knees. The curve of his back is sweet, a faint pink line from where the water had ended running from shoulder to shoulder. Pete wants to touch it, just to know if it feels any different. His hand is starting to raise up when Patrick says, “I don’t think I can keep doing this.”

Pete’s heart lodges itself in his throat and refuses to beat.

“Patrick...”

“What do you want from me?” Patrick asks.

He turns to face Pete for the first time, waiting. The short sides of his hair look dark, growing out too long to hang loose over his ears. There’s a scratch across his jaw, an old scar thin and silvery through his eyebrow. All these little details adding up into things Pete’s never let himself see. Pete doesn’t have an answer for him, can’t give him one even though he wants to. He doesn’t know anymore. Patrick nods and takes a deep breath.

“Right, well. First step: get out of the bathroom so I can get dressed.” Patrick looks at him expectantly, but Pete doesn’t budge. He can’t.

“Patrick, please.” Pete swallows thickly.

There’s a lump in his throat, blocking his air and making him dizzy. Losing this is the worst thing that could happen to him. Losing Patrick, the only thing that’s been consistently good to him.

“I can’t be your warm body.” Patrick tugs the plug out, eyes focused down at the tap as the water drains. “Jesus, Pete, even I have more self respect than that.”

“I want you,” Pete admits. It tears out of his throat, the most honest thing he’s ever said. “I want you.”

Patrick is huddled in on himself, cold and naked and wet in the tub, pale and small and vulnerable. Fragile in a way Pete shouldn’t care about but does. From the second he showed up, he’s been turning Pete’s life upside down, and Pete can’t get rid of him, can’t stop thinking about him. He can’t, he can’t, _he can’t_.

Pete climbs in with him. Patrick jumps, the sound of his damp skin smacking against the porcelain loud like a gunshot. He can’t move fast enough to get away from Pete’s grasping hands but manages to do a good job of banging up his knees and elbows in the process, his shin catching against the faucet and skinning open in a thin line. He’s freezing already, skin like ice under Pete’s fingers as Pete wraps him up, pulls him in.

The width of his hips spreads Pete’s thighs open wide, pinches his legs against the sides of the tub. His bare chest is pressed to Patrick’s bare back, skin sticking to clammy skin. When he’s sure Patrick isn’t going to run, he slides his hand across Patrick’s chest and feels the soft down of the hair that’s starting to grow there. The jackhammer beat of Patrick’s heart under his palm is terrifying.

Patrick’s still, probably as freaked out as Pete is. His fingers clutch at the lip of the tub, knuckles white. Pete presses his forehead to the back of Patrick’s neck and breathes him in. They sit like that for a long time, shivering in the cold tub. Pete doesn’t want to let go, not if this is the last time he’s going to have a chance to be in this position.

“You don’t get another shot,” Patrick warns. His voice is low. Tired. Pete’s set to manic, wants to run Patrick through the city screaming just to burn off the energy. “If this goes south, I’m out.”

“Yeah,” Pete says. “Okay.”

They crawl out of the tub together, too many arms and legs, and Patrick stumbles to the towel rack to collect his clothes. Pete looks, really looks, for the first time. He doesn’t know how he feels at all. Patrick sheepishly dresses, back turned to Pete as he yanks on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt two sizes too big. Covers himself up like he’s putting on armor.

They climb into one of the beds together, the other abandoned under their bags and filthy clothes. Pete balls himself up against the broadness of Patrick’s chest and thinks that this, at least, is an improvement over girls. Patrick curls around him and sleeps.

Pete spends most of the night memorizing the decal on his shirt and feeling him breathe. When he falls asleep, he stays asleep.

\---

Tour passes in a rush of color and sound. The shows crash into one another in an endless blur. Pete spends his nights staring at the stars through the windows, his days dreaming about sleeping until he wakes up famous.

One night, somewhere in Nebraska, Pete catches Joe awkwardly hitting on some girl in the back of the venue. They have to be out before midnight, but Pete isn’t going to rush the kid. Joe’s like his little brother. The show’s totally going to be too good to miss.

“So,” the girl says, leaning in to Joe’s space. “How long have you guys been playing together?”

“Uh.” Joe wipes his hands on his jeans, nearly shaking. “A little over a year. We, uh—” He coughs, shifting awkwardly. Pete winces. The poor kid’s going to give himself an aneurysm. “We’re on our second tour.”

“That’s so cool,” the girl says. Her hand slides across Joe’s wrist. Pete can see his knees jerk. Oh, he’s so pathetic. “How long have you been playing guitar?” Her fingers curl around his wrist, slow and sweet.

“Since I was thirteen,” Joe answers. Pete bets he’s leaving out the part about only being eighteen. “Music is kind of—it’s what I know best.” The girl smiles, all shiny lip gloss and dark eyes. Joe opens his mouth again, but whatever he says is drowned out by the manager’s bellowing clear out call.

“Call me,” the girl says, sliding Joe’s phone out of his back pocket. It’s smoother than anything Pete’s ever done, and he takes a moment to be impressed by her moves as she punches in her number. He doesn’t even laugh when she pulls Joe in by the shirt and kisses him stupid.

“Good job,” Pete says when Joe stumbles by him.

“Fuck you,” Joe mumbles back. He’s holding his phone like a precious object, thumb tracing back and forth over the side. He spends the next few days in a daze.

Pete’s surprised when he overhears Joe on the phone a week later, talking quietly to the girl in the back of the van. Maybe it wasn’t as pathetic as he thought it was.

Things don’t really change. They get better and Pete gets pretty good at scamming managers into giving them better deals. They keep moving from town to town, play show after show until the songs are burned into them. Really, the only difference is Patrick.

Patrick who curls up with him in the back of the van and sings to him for whatever host of reasons Pete makes up. Patrick who doesn’t bitch when Pete steals his clothes, who doesn’t shove him away when he needs to shout, when he needs to scream at anything and anyone to make the itching, burning coldness in his veins seep out. Patrick, who one night writes _i think i love you_ on the back of Pete’s hand in Sharpie when Pete’s passed out and doesn’t press when Pete doesn’t bring it up.

Pete watches him sometimes and wonders. Wonders if things would be different if Patrick were a chick, if things would be different if Pete was. Wonders sometimes if it matters at all and immediately shoves it into the back of his mind.

On the last week of tour, Pete steps up to the mic and says, “And that—that right there—is Patrick fucking Stump.” The crowd- bigger than they’re used to—the biggest yet—cheers and Patrick goes pink under the lights, voice distorted around his smile as he starts to sing.

August is almost over and it feels like time is running out.

\---

Joe has a barbecue when they get home. He wears his dad’s apron and wields the spatula like it’s a weapon, waving it wildly every time someone even so much as steps towards the grill.

“My house, my grill,” he says when Pete bitches about it. He shoves Pete off the porch to where most of their friends are hanging out.

There’s a keg in the in middle of the yard—Pete’s donation to the cause—and Pete’s contemplating sampling when he sees Patrick near it, the high blush over his cheeks saying that he at least already has. He looks up and catches Pete’s eye, smiles toothy and wide. Pete’s chest does that thing where it feels too small and too big all at once.

He wiggles through people and ignores the sound of his name being called, planting himself at Patrick’s side. There’s beer in his cup, sloshing over the rim as he lifts it to his mouth. Pete almost feels like a bad person for letting him get away with it. He thumps their shoulders together and listens to the end of Patrick’s conversation with Chris.

The air smells like the sharp grease of burgers and the clippings from the lawn, summery and light. Overhead, the sky is pastel blue and clear, the sun like a big yellow marker stain. The end of summer. If he still thought he was going to go back to DePaul, he might be sad about it. As it is, all he can see in his future is music and touring and making out in the dark when no one’s around. It’s a good life.

Pete slings an arm around Patrick’s shoulders—friendly, but only as friendly as he’d be with Joe or Andy or Chris—and drags him closer on the pretense of a noogie. Patrick smells like his favorite cologne and a little like sweat, a lot like teenaged boy. It’s not as unpleasant as Pete used to think it was. Not really.

Patrick slaps at him half-heartedly, beer spilling out onto the grass as Chris wanders away.

“We,” Pete says definitively, “are going swimming.” Patrick blinks at him, face a little sunburnt across the nose.

“No,” he says, mocking Pete’s tone. “We are not.”

“We are. We are and you’re going to deal with it.” Pete plucks Patrick’s drink from his hand and finishes it in one long pull, chucking the cup into the lawn behind him. “Come on. Pants off.”

Pete grins, throwing a weak punch at Patrick’s arm before jogging to Joe’s shitty above ground pool. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know Patrick is following. There’s a few people in the pool but Pete’s pretty sure he can change that with minimal effort. He yanks his shirt over his and tosses it at Joe who does his angry spatula waving bit, slopping grease across the deck. Patrick, for the most part, looks skeptical as he climbs onto the little platform the pool’s sitting on.

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Pete asks as he toes off his shoes. Predictably, Patrick scowls at him. It’s fast becoming one of Pete’s favorite faces. “I’ll pull you in. Just so you know.”

He will, if he has to. He doesn’t think it’ll come to that, but he’s been known to do worse. Patrick looks around, antsy. Jesus Christ, his stupid fucking body issues. He’s getting laid on a regular basis. Pete doesn’t get his problem. When Patrick’s satisfied that people aren’t looking or whatever, he steps out of his own shoes and reaches for the buckle of his belt. Pete crows in victory.

“You’re an asshole,” Patrick says as he slips his belt through its loops. “For the record.”

“Duly noted.” 

Pete wiggles out of his jeans and sprints up the wobbly ladder, cannonballing the best he can without a diving board. Water goes flying. The few people in the pool make noises at him but Pete cheerfully ignores them, doggy paddling to the side, pulling himself up on it. Patrick still hasn’t taken off his pants.

“Today, dude,” Pete goads.

Patrick sighs and shoves his jeans down, face screwed up in a grimace. He’s wearing the plaid boxers with worn out spaces on the waistband. Pete’s not surprised at all when he climbs in with his shirt still on. When Patrick’s settled in, no longer scowling but awkwardly pushing himself to the center of the pool, Pete makes his move.

“Hey, do you mind holding these for me?” He throws his soaked boxers at the closest girl, and she shrieks as they hit the water with a wet slap. The pool clears pretty quickly.

“Please tell me you plan on putting those back on.” Patrick’s paddling his arms to keep afloat, just a few inches shy of being able to stand on the bottom of the pool.

“Killjoy,” Pete chides. Still, he makes a show of pulling his boxers back on, loud enough for even Joe to yell at him to shut up. Being naked in public is one thing. Being naked with Patrick in public is another.

The air is dry and hot, but it feels good under the cool water. Pete doggy paddles to Patrick, stopping in front of him and grinning. Patrick smiles back reluctantly, his knees bumping against Pete’s under the water. They’re safe here, Pete thinks, where no one can really see what’s going on.

He snags Patrick’s shirt and pulls him to the far side of the pool, butting them against the wall. He feels Patrick anchor himself against the warm plastic, arms bent over the lip to hold himself up. Under the water, Pete wraps his calf around Patrick’s.

“So, school,” Pete says.

He’s gotten used to being around Patrick and Joe and Andy at all times. Two of the three are going to be absent, and he’s been avoiding Andy ever since the bar fight. He’s not ready for questions just yet. Patrick shrugs.

“Happens every year,” he says.

He’s rubbing his leg against Pete’s, not watching the rest of the party at all. Pete does that for him, checks to see where everyone’s looking just in case. No one’s paying them attention.

“And what about, you know. After?” Pete’s already thrown his papers for re-enrollment out. He’s not going back. Not now, not ever. Even if Fall Out Boy doesn’t make it, even if they all leave him like Arma did, Pete can’t go back to school.

“That’s a stupid question.” Patrick lifts his chin, all teenage defiance and bullheadedness. 

Pete laughs. He’s not going to admit he’s relieved, but it pulses deep in his chest. Patrick’s knee moves up steadily, sliding between Pete’s thighs. He’s biting the corner of his lip, waiting for Pete to shove him away. Pete feels something like guilt low in his gut at the knowledge that a few weeks ago he would have. He wants to put his hands on Patrick’s waist, pull him in and rut up against him like they’re in his basement, or in Pete’s room, alone and free. Patrick presses his knee right up under Pete’s balls, and Pete’s breathing cuts short.

 

Behind them, the ladder smacks against the plastic siding as someone climbs in. Pete’s acting before he can even turn to see who it is, reflexes kicking in. He dunks Patrick under with both hands on the top of his head, ignoring the wide eyed look Patrick gives him just before he goes below the surface. He feels the punch to his gut, but the water slows it down and makes it weak.

“Water war,” Tim shouts merrily, and promptly tackles Pete down.

Half of the party winds up in the pool, waging war cries and stretching the limits of the plastic siding. Patrick leaves before the barbecue is over. He doesn’t say goodbye.

\---

Pete doesn’t tell his parents about dropping out. He goes out during the day and keeps himself occupied until three, then heads to Joe’s or Patrick’s and makes a nuisance of himself until he’s sent home by a concerned mother. It’s a good routine. A solid routine. Keeps him busy enough that he doesn’t go crazy.

Pete sees his doctor and has his pills adjusted. For a few months, they’re going to try something new. See if he can handle it. Pete hasn’t been taking them to schedule anyway. They make him feel jittery. Unbalanced. The nights it gets bad, he sneaks into Patrick’s room and sleeps there, sneaking back out before Patrick’s alarm goes off.

Autumn comes, cold and crisp, and Pete lines up as many weekend shows as he can. If he wants this to work, he's going to have to _make_ it work. He needs to make it work. Being manager for the band keeps him busy, too. He likes the challenge of it, likes seeing his band’s faces light up as he announces basement party after bar after shitty no name venues.

They play a Halloween party, dressed up in shitty makeshift costumes. Pete rips up a wifebeater and says he's Bruce Banner whenever anyone asks, flexing and snarling until they leave him alone. He's entirely unsurprised when Patrick and Joe show up in matching zombie makeup smudged across their faces. They've been hanging out a lot, tucked up together every time Pete even so much as goes looking for either one of them.

Pete asked about it once, curled up in bed with Patrick, exhausted but unable to sleep. It had been eating at him, a gnawing in his gut that wouldn't let up. Patrick laughed at him, the sound trailing off when he realized Pete was serious. 

"There's just you," Patrick said flatly, pulling away to the other side of the bed. "Joe doesn't even know I'm gay." Pete had winced, let it drop. He hasn't said anything since, but it eats at him sometimes, makes him feel one step outside the joke.

Now, he pulls both of them into Jake or Jack or Josh's living room and shoves them into the corner where their equipment is sitting haphazardly. The gig's only paying in beer and chips but the exposure is nice and it's way better than passing out candy at home. Andy's already at his kit, bare feet propped up on a chair. He's wearing red suspenders and a drawn on mustache that's already smudging down over his lip.

"Four songs," Pete says, reaching for his bass. "And then we can get trashed." Joe and Patrick bump elbows, taking their places. Pete can feel Andy's eyes on him, knows that he's going to have to listen to Andy lecture him later about not fucking the kids up. Patrick smiles at him from behind the microphone, stupid make-up heavy across his face. One's worth the other, he supposes.

They get a tiny crowd of kids in costume, some of them familiar faces. Patrick sings like he's playing to an actual crowd, laughs when one of the guys throws out a request for _Freebird_ in the middle of songs. He looks like he's comfortable here, jumping in place behind his stand, trapped in the corner. This kid, this little superstar.

Pete feels his wife beater sliding off his shoulders as he bounces around, bass slapping against his thighs. His headstock smashes into some kid's hip, breaks the circle around him. Someone laughs when the kid shouts at him, and then it's a free for all. Kids invade their circle and shove Patrick around, bump shoulders with Joe hard enough that he stumbles over the chords.

And Pete? He laughs and laughs and laughs and slams into as many people as he possibly can. They sound like shit, but Pete's never had so much fun.

When their four songs are done, Joe and Patrick stay in the corner, taking requests. Patrick laughs his way through _Freebird_ as promised, Joe's mouth moving in what has to be complaints as his fingers work over the frets. Pete aims himself at the keg. He earned it.

"That was a lot better than I thought it would be," Jake or Jack says, handing him a topped off red cup. It's a backhanded compliment but Pete will take what he can get. He salutes, beer sloshing sticky over his hand and onto the carpet.

"I'll pass it on," he mumbles, mouth already heading towards the rim of his cup. It's shit beer. He wasn't really expecting anything more.

When Patrick and Joe stop fucking around at the front, the speakers kick on, Spitalfield thumping through the room. Pete wrinkles his nose and reaches for the tap. After a moment, he fills a second cup. Like he's been called, Patrick pops up at his side just in time to take it.

"Hey," he says, taking a swallow. The zombie makeup is running green and brown in streaks over his cheeks and jaw, staining the collar of his shirt. The toilet paper wound on his forehead is starting to peel off. He looks stupid. "How long are we staying?" Pete shrugs.

"Not long," he answers. "Andy hates these things." Patrick bobs his head, pulling a face as he drinks the bottom of his cup. Pete refills him without asking. They're being paid in booze. He's not going to shortchange his star.

It doesn't take long for Andy to find them. He eyes the way they're leaned in together, raises his eyebrows. Pete backs off. He's on beer four, fingertips buzzing a little around his cup. If he would have had a few more, he'd probably be upstairs with Patrick right now, smearing his stupid makeup even more.

"Joe's in the van." Andy has to shout over the music to be heard. Poor bastard, Pete thinks, tossing his cup into the nearest bag. Didn't get to enjoy any spoils at all. "Come on."

Pete and Patrick follow him outside like children, weaving through the rest of the party goers. Pete feels like he's in high school again, trying to get back home before curfew. He piles into the back with Patrick, arm against a speaker and knees jammed behind the driver's seat and thinks that it's not entirely a bad thing.

Joe's the first stop. He yawns and stumbles out of the van, wiping a hand over his mouth. The streetlights make his eyes look hollow, the fake blood he'd smeared next to his ear in jagged lines over his jaw. The white smudges on his nose are from Patrick's fake wounds. Pete bites his tongue as he slams the door. Fucking kids.

"I'm getting off with Patrick," Pete says, wincing when it's out of his mouth. Good job, he thinks.

"Why?" Andy asks, looking back through the rearview mirror.

"We want to try to write something," Patrick says. It's plausible, at least. Pete nods along and feels the dryness in his mouth start to clear. Andy keeps watching them. Pete has to look away first.

Andy drops them off, waiting until they're inside the door to drive off. He's a good guy, but sometimes Pete wishes he weren't so astute. He knows something's up.

Pete strips out of his shirt and jeans as Patrick disappears into the bathroom. He pads around the living room in his boxers, looking at the photos on the wall. There's a family portrait above the fireplace, too formal to be comfortable. Patrick has to be twelve in it, small and just a little too narrow for his suit jacket. His hair is slicked back, the cowlick at the back of his head sticking straight up.

Dimly, he hears the bathroom door creak open, hears the floorboards crack as Patrick heads to his room. He can't stop looking at the family photo. Sometimes, he forgets that Patrick existed before they met.

When he gets to Patrick's bedroom, Patrick is already buried under the covers, damp hair in spikes on his pillow. There's a smudge of green under his eye.

"Why don't you just move in?" Patrick asks sleepily as Pete climbs into bed with him. He whines when Pete shoves his cold feet into the warm place between his calves, but he doesn't move away. Pete doesn't think about where he was a year ago, about who he was. He just presses his freezing nose to the hot curve of Patrick's shoulder and hums. Move in. That sounds… nice. Pete files the thought away and lets the steady rise and fall of Patrick’s chest lull him to sleep.

\---

Pete moves out of his parents’ house in December, just before Christmas. His father oversees the entire move from the living room, nursing a cup of coffee as Pete hustles box after box into the van. He doesn’t offer to help and Pete doesn’t expect him to.

“How exactly do you plan on paying for this?” His father asks as Pete’s locking up the back of the van. His fingers are frozen, the tips turning red. He can’t feel his feet, his stupid canvas shoes soaked through with snow. The feel of satisfaction boiling up through his veins keeps him warm as he turns to face his father.

“I got a job at Jewel,” he says. He hasn’t stepped foot inside one for months. His dad doesn’t need to know that. “I’m twenty-three. I shouldn’t be living with you anymore.”

“No, you shouldn’t. But you’re not exactly—”

“What, Dad? I’m not what?” Pete shoulders past his father, aiming himself at the doors. A hand wraps around his wrist, squeezing painfully. Pete jerks it away. He’s almost gone. Just a few more steps, and he’ll be done.

“You’ve never been good at taking care of yourself,” his father says. It’s like a punch to the gut. “We don’t feel like you’re stable enough to be on your own.”

“I don’t need you,” Pete grits out. He hops into the driver side seat and slams the door. He doesn’t look back as he drives away. This is a new start. This is a new him.

The apartment is too big for just him, one half of a duplex in the middle of Evanston. He thinks he can see shadows on the walls at night, sliding around his room like boneless ghosts.

When he has his house warming party, Andy corners him in the kitchen. Pete already knows what he’s going to ask, has been bracing himself for it all night. He might be the oldest, but Andy’s the adult. Pete sucks up his pride and waits.

“How are you paying for it?” Andy asks. He’s a mix of friend and brother, someone Pete’s always going to need in his life, but sometimes Pete wishes he would just back off.

“I cashed in my scholarship,” Pete says with a shrug. His father’s been paying for school that Pete hasn’t been attending for nearly a year, and Pete’s been storing it up in his bank account for months. It’s not enough to survive on for long, but it’s a good start.

“This is going to backfire,” Andy says, like Pete doesn’t know. “Why don’t you just get an actual job? Patrick just got hired at 7-Eleven, he could probably get you an in.”

“I’m not exactly the working type,” Pete answers. Someone in the front hall calls for him, and Pete takes the excuse to run away. He knows Andy’s going to catch up to him eventually, but he’s going to burn as much time as he possibly can.

On the nights when the apartment gets too much for him, he makes the half hour drive to Patrick’s and slips into Patrick’s room. He sleeps better with him near. He spends his days in his apartment mostly naked and enjoying the freedom that he’s never really had, pacing back and forth between the rooms. He feels like things are changing all around him and he’s racing to catch up.

“You,” Chris says three weeks after Pete’s move, voice reedy through the phone, “need to come out.”

Pete hasn’t seen a lot of Chris since Arma called it quits—too busy with himself, too busy with hiding out and trying to make things make sense. He looks at the blank television and thinks, fuck it. He deserves a night out.

They make the long drive to Friar Tuck’s, all of them crammed into Chris’s car. Pete’s greeted by familiar faces like it’s fucking Cheers or something, drunks and bartenders alike reminding him that he hasn’t hung out with adults for months. Tim buys him a double shot of Velvet before they even sit, and Pete swallows it down like a champ. He’s going to get smashed and it’s going to be great.

By midnight, Pete’s had enough one dollar beers to be raucous, throwing himself at people and singing along to the jukebox. His head feels light, hands loose every time he tries to move them. Like water. He feels reckless and invincible. Young enough to be stupid. It’s nice having Tim and Chris right there along with him when he says he wants to play match box tennis. It almost feels like old times.

They get a six pack to go and Pete takes up a pretty little scene girl’s offer for a body shot as he’s heading for the exit. He licks her collarbone, sucks down the tequila, and leaves before she can kiss him. She yells until the door slams, her voice like nails against his ear drums. Pete laughs the whole way to the car.

Pete zones out as they raid Chris’s basement for tennis balls. Chris buys three boxes of strike anywhere matches at the 24/7, the only one sober enough to be able to go in without having a laughing fit. Pete’s hands aren’t all that steady as he tries to assemble the bombs. It feels like he’s falling down and up all at once as he slices careful slits into the tennis balls with Tim’s pocket knife, following the seams. He nicks his thumb, but he’s numb enough that he doesn’t realize it until he sees blood on the felt.

They throw the balls at the windows of a burnt out factory. Pete shatters one and hears the matches go off like it’s through fog. Sometime later, Chris lands one above the door. Sparks fly. It’s like fireworks without the boom, hissing and spitting smoke like rockets. Mesmerized, Pete watches the ball rolls back to them, the smell of the burnt rubber overtaking him.

He breaks into the beer and downs two before Chris and Tim confiscate it from him. It’s funny. Everything’s funny. Pete laughs and tumbles to the ground, tripping over his feet. He feels dizzy, head too heavy for his neck. He’s missed this. Missed getting good and drunk with his buddies without doing anything stupid like sleeping with teenagers.

“You need to go home,” Chris says when Pete trips over his own feet. Pete laughs.

He doesn’t want to go home. Home is quiet and too big and full of things that remind him of who he used to be. He doesn’t need to remember who he was. He already knows. Chris drags him to the car and shoves him into the back seat. Bouncing against the door, Pete tosses the last ball into the street as they drive off. It burns like a star in the darkness. Pete watches it until it’s too small to see.

“Take me to Patrick’s,” he says. He has to say it again, later, because the music is too loud. Chris gives him a weird look through the rearview mirror, face scrunched up. Pete knows he should be making up some excuse, but he really just doesn’t give a fuck.

“Dude, isn’t it, like, a school night or something?” Chris laughs. Fucking stupid. Pete kicks him through the center of the seats. It makes the car jerk to the side as Chris’s elbow buckles, and Chris shouts, “What the fuck, man?” as he rights the car again.

“Just fucking drive,” Pete orders.

He closes his eyes and tries to will away the nausea. There’s no place to go but to Patrick’s when he’s got sick in his head. Chris pulls to a stop in front of Patrick’s place twenty minutes later. He looks back at Pete, concerned, and Pete flips him off. Where was the concerned face when Arma split? Where was the concerned face when Pete needed a place to crash? Pete waves at Tim and stumbles out onto the road, nearly toppling to the pavement.

Patrick has a second story bedroom. His light is off, but it makes sense because when Pete checks his phone it reads three am. Stupid and still a little reckless, Pete grabs the latticework like he’s done countless times before, but has to pause before he starts climbing up, wobbling unsteadily.

It takes a lot longer to climb up than it usually does. Pete shakes as he climbs, and the lattice groans under the prolonged exposure to his weight. When he reaches Patrick’s room, it’s a small miracle that he doesn’t fall off and break his neck as he pushes the window open. He tumbles in gracelessly, rolling across the floor. He leaves the window open. If he tries to close it, he might fall out. The cold air seeps in, filling the room up with the December wind, but Pete can barely feel it.

Patrick’s asleep, blankets twisted around his hips, shirt rucked up over his stomach. He looks young curled in on himself like he is. Pete just wants to- he wants. He kicks off his shoes, nearly falling into the dresser as he lifts his right foot, and shucks off his hoodie and jeans. The room is already freezing.

It’s proven fact that Patrick sleeps like the dead. Pete crawls in next to him, presses full body against his side and tries to leech off his warmth, curling up around him like a snake. Patrick’s soft and warm and good, and Pete wants to fuck him into the mattress just because he knows he can. That sounds like a good idea, actually. He should put it into action.

Pete kicks at the blanket and reaches for the waist of Patrick’s boxers. He tugs at them with numb fingers, frustrated when they don’t go down. Oblivious, Patrick hums sleepily and rolls onto his side. The rolling helps. Pete manages to get Patrick’s boxers down to his thighs- which are hot and nice, and Pete kind of wants to bite them, just to see what will happen.

He’s not sure how he ends up dangling halfway off the bed, face pushed into the warm, dry gap between Patrick’s thighs, the fine hair there tickling his cold, cold nose. It’s nice there though. Warm. He thinks he’ll stay a while.

Above him, Patrick sighs in his sleep. His knees draw up from the cold, boxers sliding down his legs to curve around his ankles. Pete rides the motion, cheek slipping down to rest against the place where Patrick’s thigh meets his body. He’s got a close up view of Patrick’s soft cock in front of him, his dizzy head so very close.

It’s kind of ugly. Dicks are weird. It makes laughter bubble up through his throat until he can’t hold it in any longer. He presses his mouth into Patrick to stifle it, but that makes his cheek brush up against Patrick’s cock, and that makes him laugh even harder. When he manages to get himself together, he reaches up for it, prodding at the head with his fingertips.

It’s weird, watching Patrick get hard under his hand. This close, he can see the dark vein running up the underside, can see the way it twitches as he goes from half hard to full on boner. Pete’s—he’s okay with this, mostly. He’s getting used to it with time.

He likes Patrick and Patrick makes him feel good. He’s just drunk enough that he’s grateful for it—so, so grateful for it—and it seems wrong, somehow, that he hasn’t done something great back. He should remedy that, should make it even. He should...he should...

Pete screws his eyes shut and licks a short line up the side of Patrick’s cock. It’s—not bad. Not really. There isn’t much of a taste at all. He doesn’t know what he’d been expecting. Maybe for it to taste like a girl, damp and musky and hot. Maybe for it to taste gross. But—it doesn’t. Not really.

He does it again, short little flicks of his tongue. Girls had liked that, but he’s pretty sure it’d just drive him stupid crazy if it were done to him. Pete looks up at Patrick, tongue flat against his dick, mouth open against him. Patrick’s still asleep, face screwed up like he’s dreaming. That’s not really helpful to this mission. That doesn’t give Pete anything to go on at all.

Dicks, he figures, have to be mostly alike. Pull it, suck it, whatever. They all feel the same. He flounders for a moment, trying to think of the stuff Patrick does that gets him off. A good start, he supposes, is actually putting it in his mouth.

Pete wiggles himself up, pushing Patrick’s legs farther apart with his shoulders. He lifts up and wraps a hand determinedly around the base of Patrick’s cock. He can do this. It’s just a dick, and dicks are just like big clits, and Pete totally knows what to do with those.

Patrick’s wide enough that it stretches Pete’s mouth when Pete finally mans up and wraps his lips around it. His cheeks feel tingly, the corners of his mouth too tight. The tingly might be the beer, but Pete’s not really sure. Here, the not-taste is stronger. Like salt. Pete wrinkles his nose. He feels his teeth scrape against the soft skin, and he immediately stops making faces. Whoops.

First step accomplished. The rest should be easy, he thinks. Just—go for it. He sucks at the head and hears Patrick moan quietly in response. That's awesome. He’s making progress. After a few moments, he gathers his bearings and tries to bob his dizzy head. It mostly works, especially when he keeps his eyes closed against the spinning world.

Once he gets the hang of it, it’s—not bad. Kind of nice. He can feel spit running down Patrick’s dick, making his fist wet where he’s still holding it straight. He can hear the wet noises over his labored breaths, slick like something out of high quality porn.

Patrick’s making noises here and there that are really hot, unconscious little whines that shoot straight to Pete’s dick. Pete realizes he’s hard when he starts humping against the mattress in time to the off beat rhythm he’s moving his head to, dull pleasure spreading through him like a warm wave.

When he opens his eyes—tired of the colors behind them, tired of not seeing- he catches Patrick watching him, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Pete likes his mouth, respects it, even, now that he knows just how hard this is. Hard. It makes him laugh around Patrick’s dick, the sound slipping back into his throat as soon as it escapes. Pete sucks harder and Patrick’s thighs shake. There had a plan when he came in, before he started this. What was...

Oh. Oh, right.

He pulls up long enough to spit into his hand before sinking back down. He doesn’t know why he’s never sucked dick before. It’s kind of awesome, makes him feel powerful.

Patrick jumps when Pete shoves a finger into him, restless and horny and ready to get back to his plan now that he remembers it. It makes the head of his cock bump into the soft roof of Pete’s mouth, and Pete chokes. Okay, that’s not fun, but the way Patrick moans helplessly is really fucking hot. He’s going to have to let Patrick make these noises more often, suck him off when they’re in Pete’s apartment where he can be as loud as he wants.

Suddenly there’s a hand in his hair, yanking the curls hard enough to hurt. Pete scowls and fights the pressure. He likes this. He knows Patrick’s liking this. Why is Patrick trying to stop him? Then there’s a rush of hot, wet, bitter in his mouth and Pete thinks, oh.

It’s gross. Oh, god it’s really fucking gross. Pete scrambles to the side of the bed, spitting it out as best he can, the taste sticking to his tongue. Patrick swallows that shit. He deserves a medal or something.

“Jesus, you couldn’t have woke me up when you decided to give me head?” Patrick asks and wow, he’s a bitch in the morning.

Pete opens his mouth to tell him as much, but when he starts everything in his stomach comes up instead. At the head of the bed, Patrick sighs.

Patrick hauls him to the bathroom, hands tucked under his armpits, knees tucked into the back of Pete’s as he half walks him there. Pete feels weightless even though his stomach’s turning and his head is spinning. The lights stay off, but Patrick helps to get him out of his disgusting shirt and sets him up next to the toilet. The porcelain of the tub is freezing against Pete’s skin.

“I’m going to get you some water,” Patrick says, soft and low. He’s a pretty awesome shade of pink all over. “Stay here.”

It seems like it takes Patrick forever to get back. Pete throws up again twice before he feels the cool weight of Patrick’s hand on the back of his neck, a colder glass of water pressing against his cheek. Pete raises his heavy head and leans back to rest against the tub again.

“You’re kind of pathetic,” Patrick says. He feeds sips of water to Pete, hand on Pete’s jaw to keep him steady. Pete would take offense if it weren’t totally true. Patrick sits up with him all night, rubbing his back and humming over Pete’s pathetic whines. It’s nice.

Pete passes out sometime before the sun’s all the way up and wakes up when it's going down again, sprawled out on the bare mattress of Patrick’s bed. His legs are twisted up in the single sheet draped over him, face against the plastic mattress cover. The window, thank god, is closed.

Pete stays curled up in Patrick’s bed, head pounding. His mouth tastes like a toxic waste dump. There’s aspirin on the dresser, and Pete spends a long time debating if it’s worth the effort of moving to get sweet relief. As he’s wriggling toward the dresser, he gets a quick flash of the night before, Patrick’s eyes wide and his mouth open, face pink, pink, pink. Sickness creeps back up on him.

“Hey,” Patrick says from the doorway. He’s fully dressed, and that makes a lot more sense when Pete sees the clock next to him. Six o’ clock. He’s slept all day. Patrick’s fidgeting, plucking at his hoodie sleeve. Pete can’t look him in the eye. “Are you hungry? I can—mom made dinner. I can bring some up.”

“Does she know I’m here?” Pete asks.

He sounds like shit. Patrick shakes his head. Small favors, Pete supposes.There’s awkward silence. Pete smells and he wants a shower and new clothes and possibly to run the fuck away so he doesn’t have to deal with looking at Patrick right now. Those things are far away though, and he can’t change it no matter how much he wants to. Patrick sinks down to the floor and wraps his arms around his knees. He looks small, a flash back to the first time he’d been in Pete’s room so long ago.

“We should probably talk about it,” Patrick says quietly.

Pete doesn’t want to talk about it. He wants to shove it into the back of his mind and never think of it again. Patrick’s watching him, waiting. He’s going to have to wait a long fucking time if he wants anything useful.

“Why’d you come here last night?” Patrick asks.

It’s such a stupid question. Pete’s head aches. He has to press the heels of his palms into his eyes to keep them from popping straight out of his head. Jesus, he hates hangovers.

“Because I wanted to,” Pete snaps. He feels bad about it instantly—the throb of his temples punishment enough for any crimes he’s committed. The shuttered look Patrick gives him makes him sigh. “I fucking like you, okay? Christ. We don’t have to share our feelings about it.”

“You never did that before,” Patrick points out.

“No fucking shit.” Pete runs his hands over his face and pushes himself all the way up. He feels so naked in just his boxers, open for Patrick to see. He kicks the sheet away and tumbles off the bed. He needs to piss, and he needs to eventually go home, and he needs Patrick to stop looking at him like he just kicked someone’s fucking puppy. When he gets to the door he slumps down next to Patrick, leaning heavily into him. He’s exhausted.

“What are we doing?” Patrick asks quietly.

He rests his head against Pete’s gently, mindful of Pete’s hangover. Good fucking question, Pete thinks. He slides his hand into Patrick’s and holds on. It’s not really an answer—he doesn’t have one, wouldn’t give one anyway—but it’s going to have to be enough.

\---

Things move on. The world keeps spinning. Pete spends most of his time bouncing back and forth between houses and parties, keeping himself drunk enough to turn down the volume of noise in his head. And Patrick, he stays there through it, quiet on the sidelines as Pete tries to burn away the bridges that are holding him down. He's one of the few things that don't change. One of the few pieces of rock Pete's got to hold on to.

“You should move in,” Pete says against Patrick’s throat, biting at the skin there.

They’re curled up in Pete’s bed, lounging in the sunlight filtering in through the curtains. Pete’s naked, sprawled out lazily over the mattress, but Patrick pulled his boxers and t-shirt back on almost immediately. It’s a shame really, because it just means more effort later. He’s got Patrick for the weekend—mom free, school free, work free—and he’s going to get as many orgasms out of it as he can.

“Sure,” Patrick says, head lolling to the side so he can look at Pete. His hair sticks up in short, sharp spikes around his face, sweat damp at the temples. “Let me just run that by my mom.”

“Your mom loves me.” Pete thumps his knuckles idly against Patrick’s chest, wiggling to find the hot spot on the sheets. Beside him Patrick snorts. It makes Pete’s hand bounce along with the sound.

Pete gives up on the sunlight and rolls half way onto Patrick, hip digging into the meat of Patrick’s thigh. Patrick doesn’t smile, exactly, but it’s close. He looks amused anyway, tracking Pete’s fidgeting. Pete grins at him. He’s happy, he guesses. It’s kind of a foreign feeling, rooted deep in his chest and creeping into his veins.

“I’m serious,” he says, the silence too heavy for him to listen to any longer. “After graduation. Move in with me.” _Keep the nightmares away._

Pete slides his lips down to the collar of Patrick’s shirt, sucks at the soft spot next to his Adam’s apple. When Patrick shifts under him, he grins into the salty skin. He remembers being seventeen, remembers the touch lust. He slips a hand into Patrick’s boxers, thumb skimming the thick patch of curls as he goes.

He wraps his hand around Patrick’s dick, and the weight is familiar against his palm. He nips at the corner of Patrick’s jaw, working his wrist slow and steady. This is—he’s getting used to it. Patrick makes these sounds, low and thick in his throat, and Pete can feel how into it he is—something that would have been great when he was with chicks.

“Move in with me, Stump,” Pete says. Graduation is two months away. Pete can wait that long. Patrick presses up into his fist, moaning softly. “It’ll be great.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, breathy, fucking up into his hand. Dudes, Pete thinks. So easy. “Yeah. Just...”

Pete laughs and ducks down, sliding Patrick’s boxers down with him. He can remember quick flashes from December, chunks of time floating at the back of his brain, remembers the way Patrick had tasted, the way he’d been heavy and wide against Pete’s tongue. He remembers the startled look on Patrick’s face as he came. It’s been months, and he hasn’t tried it again, but he thinks that maybe he could.

Patrick whines when Pete slows his hand down, spreads his thighs and humps against Pete’s palm. Pete rubs his cheek against the soft skin of Patrick’s hip, his stubble rasping against it in soft _scritch, scritch, scritch_ patterns. He watches the shiny head of Patrick’s cock pop out of the ring of his fist, angry red and sticky.

It’s just a dick, Pete tells himself, staring at the slide of it against his hand. Patrick’s fingers are twisting in the sheets, a steady tempo that matches his heart beat. He’s close. All Pete has to do is—he just has to— He leans in. He's close enough to feel the heat rolling off of Patrick’s dick and pulls back so quickly he nearly falls off the bed. His hand goes tight—too tight, probably—around Patrick’s cock, and Patrick chokes, hips jerking as he comes.

Pete doesn’t bother wiping him up, just pulls his underwear up and tries not to feel like a disappointment as he squirms his way back to the head of the bed.

\---

Pete sits with Patricia at Patrick’s graduation, fidgeting in his seat the whole time. High schools make him edgy, remind him of his own time spent stuck between the walls. Patricia pats his knee and keeps a running commentary before the ceremony starts in an even rhythm. Pete’s thankful for it. He catches a glimpse of Jeanae in the back row. He wonders who she knows, wonders why she’s there at all, and it makes his stomach twist.

Still, when Patrick’s name is called Pete cheers and waves like an idiot. He can almost see the hot flush across Patrick’s cheeks even as far back as he is and it makes him grin. He’s been looking forward to this for weeks. When it’s over, Patrick tosses his hat into the air with the rest of his class. For the first time since Pete saw him, he looks like an adult.

Dinner with the Stumphs is weirdly formal. Pete feels completely out of place as he takes a seat next to Patrick’s father at the table. He shouldn’t be here, not really, but Patrick had dragged him along to the car by the shirtsleeve and Patricia had shushed him when he’d tried to excuse himself.

Patrick’s diploma is sticking out of his coat pocket, the curled edges already crinkling. Pete can’t stop staring at it. This is the future for Patrick. The world is wide open to him for the taking. All he has to do is point himself in whatever direction he wants. Patrick smiles and kicks him under the table. Looks like Patrick’s picking his direction already.

“Take care of him,” Patricia says when dinner’s over, her hand light and warm on the inside of Pete’s elbow.

“Yeah,” Pete says.

He can’t look over, not right now. Not when all of them are laying something so precious as their trust on him. He nods, staring at Patrick’s diploma, and thinks about the space cleared out in his apartment for Patrick’s things. He hopes that they’re not making a mistake.

\---

Patrick has his own room. It’s across the hall from Pete’s, stuffed full of boxes that have yet to be unpacked and a full size bed that’s never made. The wallpaper is the same as the wallpaper in Pete’s, curled up at the corners of the room, dusty because Pete had never had a reason to go into it before Patrick moved in. It feels like it’s a world away.

The first two nights, Pete sleeps at the foot of the door in his own room, pillow stuffed up under his head. The cold hardwood makes his joints ache, his sore knees keeping him awake long after he’s passed the point of exhaustion. He can feel Patrick unpacking things late into the night, hear his muffled humming through the cracks of the door. 

It feels almost wrong somehow. This isn’t how it was supposed to be, Patrick living with him. It was supposed to bring them closer, and Pete feels like they’re farther apart than they ever were.

On the third night Patrick knocks into him on the way into Pete’s room. He’s dragging the quilt from his old bed behind him, sheepish when he helps Pete up from the floor. It’s the first time they’ve really seen each other since Patrick moved in.

“Hey,” Patrick says quietly. He rubs at the back of his neck, face a dull pink. “Can I—is it alright if I sleep with you tonight?”

“Yeah,” Pete says. He coughs, skin too tight. He hasn’t been sleeping enough. He feels like he’s going to fall over. “I’m—yeah.”

Patrick crawls into Pete’s bed, drawn up into a corner. It looks right. He looks like he belongs. Pete slides in next to him, back creaking from all the time he’s spent on the floor. When he wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist, Patrick sinks back into him. This is more like it.

“I can’t sleep without you anymore,” Pete says against the warm space between Patrick’s shoulder blades.

“You don’t have to,” Patrick says quietly, a lifetime later. “Not if you don’t want to.” 

Patrick’s things stay in the room across the hall, but the bed there stays stripped and cold.

\---

They schedule a tour for August through November. Pete spends the rest of June buzzing around the apartment, anxious to be on the road again. They have a cookout in the tiny backyard for Independence Day. Pete burns the burgers, but Patrick plays an impromptu show after he’s been loosened by a few beers, so Pete figures it’s a pretty successful day.

Andy makes a comment to Pete late in the day about the guest room, and Pete pales. He’d meant to put sheets on the bed that’s supposed to be Patrick’s but he’d forgotten, caught up in everything else around them.

“You’re not as subtle as you think,” Andy says and hands Pete a bottle of root beer. “And he isn’t either.”

On the deck Patrick’s singing a mash up of his favorite songs, smashing the verses together when he forgets the right lyrics. He catches Pete watching and grins, switching from _Raspberry Beret_ to _Good Riddance_ with only a small stumble. The handful of people gathered around him cheer, stupid on booze and good music.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, man, but be careful.” Andy shakes his head when Pete opens his mouth. “He’s a nice guy. He deserves something good.”

Pete wants to ask, _What about me? Don’t I deserve something good too?_ Instead, he scrapes at the rusting grill with his spatula and says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

When he crawls into bed later, he curls around Patrick and pretends that none of it matters.

\---

Patrick is making music in the kitchen. He’s singing along to the demo track on his laptop, sketching down ideas in one of Pete’s old, beaten notebooks. His pajama bottoms drag the ground as he moves back and forth across the room, too small on his hips but too long for his legs. When the song is over, the laptop clicks twice before repeating it.

There’s half an EP worth of songs in the band’s collective email, raw but ready to be recorded for real. Pete’s been listening to them at night when he can’t sleep, curled around his laptop in the living room so he doesn’t wake Patrick up. He feels good about them, can hear the work that they’ve been doing for months.

Pete leans against the doorway and watches. He doesn’t get tired of this. Patrick’s voice is a little raw, thick as he sings a new melody. He’s been working too long. Pete clears his throat, raising his eyebrows when Patrick turns to look at him.

“I had some ideas,” Patrick says sheepishly. He turns the laptop off, scratching a hand through his hair. Pete crosses into the kitchen, presses up behind him.

“Me too,” he says against Patrick’s jaw.

Patrick laughs when Pete drags him out of the kitchen. The apartment feels like home, all their things mixed up across the places they share. Patrick’s mouth is soft and sweet, his hands sneaking up under Pete’s shirt. They trip over a bundle of shoes, laughing as they stumble into the living room. Pete scruffs his shirt, tossing it onto the floor.

He’s surprised when Patrick shoves him, knocking him over the arm of the couch. The couch is rough under Pete’s bare back, the upholstery digging into his skin, leaving him tick-marked and sore under the heavy weight of Patrick over him.

It doesn’t matter—not when Patrick’s grinding down against him, mouth open and eyes closed and fingers digging hard into Pete’s shoulders. Pete rubs up against him, digs his nails into Patrick’s wrists to make him whine.

The greatest thing about living together, Pete thinks, is that Patrick can make all the noise he wants.

“I want to try something,” Patrick says, breathless and tight. His eyes are dark when he opens them, hair sticking to his face. He cuts it himself, and now Pete knows why it always looks fucked up, too long on the top and too short on the sides.

Patrick doesn’t wait for Pete to say anything, just shuffles down the couch to lay between Pete’s legs, hands reaching for the fly of his jeans. When they’re off, Pete watches Patrick go for his dick, mouth open and red. Christ, he never gets sick of Patrick giving him head.

Patrick sucks him off wet and dirty, pushing Pete’s thighs apart with his shoulders and settling in. He lets Pete pull his hair, humming against Pete’s cock and pushing up into Pete’s hand. He comes up with a soft pop, the flat of his tongue sliding over the head as he shifts. He mouths at Pete’s balls unashamedly, hands on Pete’s shaky thighs. Pete tips his head back, fingers going tighter in Patrick’s hair. The kid’s a class-A cocksucker and he’s never let Pete forget about it.

He feels the slick of Patrick’s tongue sliding down, down, down, and he goes tense when it rests just behind his balls, hot and wet and new. Patrick gives him a second but it’s not enough. Pete startles when Patrick goes lower, tongue slipping down to Pete’s ass.

What the fuck? Pete goes still. His fingers feel like they’re going to snap off, tight enough that his knuckles show white through the mess of Patrick’s hair, hanging on because there’s nothing else he can think to do. Patrick licks at him cautiously, watching, tentative as he gets closer and closer to Pete’s asshole.

When it comes, Pete’s still not expecting it, and he jerks. He sees Patrick wince, knows he’ll probably have loose strands of hair in his hand when he lets go, but Patrick doesn’t stop, kitten-licking at Pete’s hole like it’s nothing.

“What are you doing?” Pete asks.

His voice is rough, his chest airless. Patrick doesn’t answer him, just pushes his thighs up a little and flattens his tongue, licking a broad stripe up. Patrick reaches up and digs his nails into Pete’s wrist, makes him let go, and presses in further. Patrick’s tongue is in him, curling up and licking at his insides. Pete wriggles back, tries to move away from it, but Patrick follows him, the grip he’s got on Pete’s wrist tightening. Panic wells up through Pete’s chest as Patrick wraps his free hand around Pete’s dick. He feels mortified when he comes, messy and hot and hard enough to make his stomach clench.

Patrick backs away, drops Pete’s hand and reaches into his jeans. Pete doesn’t watch him jerk off, but he can hear the sounds, can still feel where he’s damp between his legs. He knows when Patrick comes, the sound so familiar he can hear it in his dreams.

“Don’t do that again,” Pete says later, when he’s dressed again, layers thrown on even though they’ve got the heater up to seventy. Patrick nods, not really meeting Pete’s eyes.

“I just thought—”

“Don’t,” Pete interrupts. He slouches down on the couch and tries not to think about how it had felt, how he can still feel it if he thinks about it hard enough. Patrick nods again and wrings out his hands before pushing himself up.

“I’ll just...” He ducks out of the room.

Pete presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. He’s so tired.

\---

Pete can’t sleep. There’s a thick pulse of anxiety settling under his skin, bouncing through his veins. He can hear Patrick moving around in his room—the guest room, not their room, nowhere near their bed or their gathered things—and it pisses Pete off, makes him itch with anger. He has to get out.

He walks around the neighborhood, hands jammed into his pockets, hunched against the cold. The streetlights glow yellow around him. Pete thinks about getting his ass kicked in a backwoods bar, thinks about the way Patrick had bled right along with him, eyes full of violence and fists bruised into the next week. He shakes himself, clenches his jaw. His head’s too full of Patrick these days.

He’s tired of it. The running, the fighting. The fear. He’s got a handful of choices and all of them make him uncomfortable. Make him antsy and unsettled. Something’s got to break soon, and it’s probably going to be him. When he circles home, the sky is pink and Patrick is nowhere to be found. There’s a note on the counter in his absence, the painstakingly chosen words obvious enough to make Pete flinch.

 _I can leave_ , it says. _If I went too far or if you don’t want me around, I can leave._ Pete crumples it in his fist before he gets to the end.

“You’re so fucking stupid,” Pete says to it, like Patrick can hear him through it.

The closet in their room is cramped, stuffed too full of clothes and boxes Pete had never bothered to unpack. He pulls the boxes out one by one, tosses jackets and shirts and jeans over his shoulder until he can fit himself inside and shut the door. It’s dark, cloying, but the pressure on his lungs lifts a little with each breath. He hasn’t done this since he was a kid, since before he started stuffing himself full of pills and fix-its. He feels so young. Helpless. Stuck here with nowhere to go but down.

Patrick’s giving him an out. Pete could take it. He could go back to his parents’ place, shut down the tour and call Jeanae. She’ll take him back if he asks. She always takes him back, even though he never deserves it. He could move on and forget about the year he spent with Patrick, fighting and fucking and believing in something good. It would be so easy.

Pete presses his forehead to his knees, tries to will away the ache that’s crawling up into his temples. The air around him is already going stale. Outside, he can hear the cars on the road, muffled like bad sound effects through the door.

His chest aches when he thinks about leaving. Patrick’s wormed his way so deep into Pete’s life, into Pete’s heart, and it feels like he’s ripping away everything inside one vein at a time, making space for himself where there’s none available. Pete needs him like he’s never needed anything before. It’s terrifying in a bone shattering way.

He can still feel Patrick on his skin, mouth wet against him. It makes his stomach turn, makes him squirm on the floor. He’s so—He’s so confused, shame boiling in his belly. Jesus, why couldn’t Patrick have just been a chick? Things would be so much easier. Simpler. Would make fucking _sense_.

His handful of options are dwindling. He wants Patrick. It tears at him, gnaws at his guts. He wants Patrick, and if he wants to keep him around, he’s going to have to go for broke like it or not. It’s go big or go home. He’s never been good at middle ground. Pete leans against the wall, stares up at the slats in the door and sees sunlight.

He stumbles out of the closet at noon. If he’s going to do this, he needs to be drunk. The only thing that’s in the liquor cabinet is an old bottle of Patron, but it’s half full, and if Pete chugs it he can be drunk enough to deal with whatever. He doesn’t know when Patrick’s going to come home, but he knows he’ll come eventually. There’s really nowhere else for him to go.

Pete pulls out an ace of spades shot glass from the cabinet. He flounders for a moment before pulling out a highball glass, too. Carefully he fills them both to up, topping the highball off with Coke. He takes the shot, grimaces, and takes a drink from the glass. Wash, rinse, repeat.

By the time Patrick comes through the door, arms loaded down with take out, Pete’s laughing at the ceiling from his spot on the floor. He doesn’t know how he got down here, but it’s nice. Comfortable, even though the side of the counter is digging into his hip. Patrick sets the take out on the counter and peers down at him, blinking at him under the brim of his crooked cap.

“What are you doing?” He asks. His face is upside down, and Pete can see up his nose. It’s hilarious.

“Looking up your nose,” Pete answers through giggles.

He locks his hands around Patrick’s ankles and pulls himself across the floor until his head is between Patrick’s feet. All he can see is the spot where the seams of Patrick’s pants meet at his crotch, like the world’s narrowed down to Patrick’s dick for a few hours.

“You okay?” Patrick asks. He waddles away from the counter a bit, taking Pete along with him. This, Pete thinks, is awesome and he should make Patrick do it all the time. Their floor might look nicer, anyway.

“So, I was thinking,” Pete says, tugging on Patrick’s jeans idly. It makes his arms feel weird so he keeps doing it, even when they start to slip over the widest part of Patrick’s hips, showing the waistband of his boxers. They have ducks on them. “You should fuck me.”

Patrick stops fighting with his pants, going suddenly still. Pete’s happy he’s on the ground already, because they fly down with the force of his weight, belt buckle smacking against his forehead kind of painfully. Patrick doesn’t laugh at him, too busy opening and closing his mouth like a fish. A Patrick fish. Pete laughs and tries not to think about freckled covered scales.

“Say again?” Patrick asks, choked.

Pete slides his hands up the solid muscle of Patrick’s calves, nails scratching through the soft hair until he can’t reach up anymore. Patrick bounces them irritably, trying to shake him off. Pete presses his thumbs into the hollows behind Patrick’s knees and feels like he’s won a contest when they buckle a little.

“I think you should fuck me,” Pete says again. It tastes funny on his tongue, wrong. Unpracticed. He makes little zig zag patterns on Patrick’s legs with his nails and shimmies closer. “How am I gonna know if I’m gay if I don’t try to take it up the ass?”

“Pete...” Patrick tries to step away from him, but between Pete’s octopus hold and his jeans twisted around his ankles all he manages to do is fall backwards onto his ass. It shakes the floor under them. “No.” Pete frowns and rolls over. This isn’t really how he saw this plan going. Not at all.

“No, this is where you say yes and, like, drag me to the bedroom.” Pete GI crawls to him, stomach scraping the tile until he’s between Patrick’s legs, chest resting on the itchy bump of his jeans. They’re bunched up in the middle of his thighs, a bare strip of skin between them and the rucked up legs of his boxers.

“You’re drunk,” Patrick says, like Pete doesn’t know.

“No shit.” Pete reaches under himself to shove the pants away, but he has to spend a couple minutes dealing with Patrick’s sneakers first. Patrick’s clothes are totally cockblocking him.

“I’m not going to...” Patrick waves his hand around spastically, not helping when Pete reaches for his underwear. If anything, he tries to sit harder. Tries to press his ass straight through the tile. “Take advantage of you, or whatever.”

“Me being drunk has never stopped you before.” Which is either a really good thing or a really shitty thing. Pete can’t quite decide. Something to think about when the room isn’t fuzzy and spinning. “Come on, Patrick. You’re a dude. You’re made to stick your dick in things.” Pete yanks on Patrick’s underwear until the hems start to rip.

“Pete, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Patrick lifts his hips, and it’s only as they’re sliding off that Pete realizes that he just shredded Patrick’s favorite pair of boxers. The fabric is soft and time worn in his hands, the threads that had once been the stitching tickling against his wrists.

“It’s a great idea,” Pete assures him.

Patrick’s soft, which is bullshit. Pete gropes him with more enthusiasm than finesse and Patrick nearly knees him in the jaw for his efforts. Pete blows his hair out of his face and lays bodily across Patrick’s shins to keep him still. The answer to his problem is that he’s wearing too many clothes.

Wiggling out of his shirt is a whole new adventure. He’s probably grinding Patrick’s bones together, knows that it’s killing his chest, but Patrick’s just staring stupidly at him, still in his shirt. Once Pete’s shirtless, he does a dick check. He’s good to go, is drunk enough to admit that he has been since he opened the Patron in the first place. Patrick’s at half mast, which is better than where they were but not actually what Pete’s aiming for. But there’s progress. Progress is good.

“I don’t think I can stand up by myself,” Pete admits. Patrick blinks down at him, the flush over his cheeks paling a little.

“Pete, I’m not doing this.” Patrick scoots back, and the cold tile replaces him under Pete’s chest. He shoves himself to his feet, one hand coming down to cover his crotch. Like Pete hasn’t seen him naked a hundred times already.

“Why do you always have to make shit so complicated?” Pete asks as he crawls to his knees. Anger is boiling under his skin, sluggish and sharp. “Why can’t you ever just go with the fucking plan?”

“Pete, can you just—”

“No.” Pete wobbles as he stands and is really fucking thrilled when he doesn’t fall right back over. He stabs a finger into Patrick’s chest, leaning in close. He can smell Patrick’s cologne, sharp and musky, and the sweetness of the soda he must have had in the car on his breath. “Why won’t you just fucking listen and fuck me?”

“Because I don’t want you to hate me in the morning,” Patrick shouts. He runs a hand through his hair, chest heaving. Pete can see it shaking.

“I won’t hate you,” Pete says. He can’t imagine it. Well. Okay, he used to hate Patrick. He used to hate Patrick a lot. But now he—he feels kind of like he’s in love. Which, woah. When did that happen? “I can’t hate you.”

“Sure,” Patrick says dryly. He’s rubbing at his mouth, a tic that Pete’s seen over and over and over. Pete remembers seeing it bleed, remembers making it bleed, and guilt weighs him down heavy, anchors him to the kitchen floor.

Pete kisses him to shut him up. He digs his fingers into Patrick’s hair and holds him close and tries to keep himself from coming clean. Patrick’s tense against him but he doesn’t shove Pete away, doesn’t make him back off. When Pete pulls back, Patrick’s watching him, all bright eyes and red mouth and trust that Pete really doesn’t deserve.

“If you want me to when you’re sober...” Patrick trails off, staring down at the floor. He steps to the side and reaches for his underwear, pulling them up. The rips in the legs tear further as he fumbles with them. “I guess we’ll talk about it then.”

Pete nods dumbly and lets himself be herded to the couch. Patrick sits him down and disappears into the kitchen. For a few moments, Pete’s afraid that he’s not going to come back at all. When he’s ready to try to stand again, Patrick reappears, a glass of water in one hand, an opened box of white rice in the other. He hands them both to Pete and settles down next to him.

And this wasn’t the way plan was supposed to go, but when Patrick curls his hand around Pete’s knee and hums him a new song, it’s maybe better.

\---

Pete wakes up alone. He’s camped up on the couch, head stuffed under the puffy back, blanket tangled around his hips and legs. He grunts and tries to pull it from between his knees, but it’s wrapped too tight and all he manages to do is knock himself onto the floor with a giant thump. Their empty take out containers are still on the table, forks sticky with leftover rice..

Patrick is nowhere to be seen.

Pete untangles himself through trial and error, banging into the coffee table on his way up. His mouth is dry but he’s headache free, which is a small miracle that he’s going to run with. He wanders through the apartment, stomach up in knots as he listens to his footfalls in the quiet house. He’s fucked up something. Again.

There’s water running in the bathroom. Pete stops outside the door, staring down at his bare feet as he listens to Patrick moving around. He’s in the bath, the sounds of his movements coming through the door slow and muffled. Pete’s hand hovers over the doorknob for a long moment before he can finally man up and open it.

Patrick’s leaning against the wall, eyes closed, the water turning his skin pink. He doesn’t look up when Pete comes in, doesn’t open his eyes when Pete takes his jeans off and lays them on the tank of the toilet next to Patrick’s boxers. He shifts up though, lifting his legs until his knees poke out of the water, red and thin. Carefully, Pete climbs in, water splashing out onto the floor as he tries to fit himself between Patrick’s calves. The faucet digs into Pete’s back, but he does his best to ignore it.

“Hey,” Pete says, soft. Patrick lifts a shoulder, the soft sound of his skin unsticking from the porcelain echoing off the walls. “I’m sorry.”

“Pete...” Patrick finally opens his eyes, rolling his head so he can look at Pete head on. “Shut up.”

They sit in silence, the water slowly cooling against them. Pete wants to reach forward and touch him, wants to go back however many hours and suck it up instead of reaching for the liquor. He tentatively wraps his fingers around Patrick’s ankle, rubs his thumb over the swell of it.

“I’m not mad,” Patrick says. He sounds tired. His foot skids across the bottom of the tub, resting under Pete’s thigh. “I just. You can’t keep doing it like this, okay? If you want me to—whatever. If you want me to do anything, you have to ask me sober. I’m not even kidding, Pete.”

Pete nods. He runs his hand up the long line of Patrick’s calf, feeling the way the muscle shifts under his fingers. There’s something unsettled sitting under his skin, jumpy and wrong, and it takes him too long to realize that he’s scared. He’s fucking terrified. Of himself, of Patrick. Of what it means. He swallows, bending forward to rest his forehead against Patrick’s knee.

“I still want it,” Pete says, quiet. He presses his nails into the dip of Patrick’s knee, watching the skin turn white under them.

“You don’t have to do this,” Patrick says. He opens his legs wider, and Pete crawls as close as he can, wrapping himself around Patrick’s chest. It’s awkward, their legs squashed together, Pete mostly out of the water, but Patrick holds him, rubs his back and presses his mouth to the crown of Pete’s head. Pete listens to his heart tick, tick, tick and swallows his pride.

“I think I love you,” he says.

It makes his breath go short once it’s out. Patrick’s hand stops moving and Pete tenses up under it. It’s been months and months since Pete’s seen the words scrawled across his skin in Patrick’s messy handwriting, thick and stark and hard to wash away. After Pete had scrubbed his skin raw, he could still see phantom marks, could see what Patrick had left behind.

Patrick hasn’t said anything since and the idea that it might have changed since then—that it might have gone away—makes Pete’s chest ache. He holds on tighter, trying to sink straight into Patrick’s skin. If he lets go, Patrick can get away. If he lets go, it might all crumble under him and leave him standing alone again.

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, voice thick and heavy. Pete can feel him swallow, feel the bob of his Adam’s apple against his cheek.

“Yeah,” Pete answers.

Patrick presses his mouth to the top of Pete’s head, his hand picking up the steady up and down over his back again. They sit in the bathwater until it goes cold, silent. When they go to bed, Patrick curls around Pete and sings to him until he falls asleep. It’s perfect.

\---

There’s something about summer that makes Pete feel restless. He’s been pacing the halls for days, music filling up the empty spaces until Patrick gets home. He thinks some times about maybe getting a job himself, but every time he reaches for an application he thinks it’s a lot like admitting defeat.

He doesn’t need a stupid job. He’s got his band and his band is all he needs.

Joe comes by the day the air conditioner breaks. Pete’s down to his boxers, sweat sliding over his skin in a thick layer that makes him grimace. All of the windows in the apartment are open but it’s a still day time outside and he feels like he’s going to melt straight into the floor boards.

“You look like shit,” Joe says. He jangles the keys in his hand, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. His roots have grown out far enough to be obnoxious. “Mom let me take the minivan. Up for a trip to the lake?”

Pete rolls onto his back, arm flopping off the side of the couch. He could probably go for a swim. And if they stop by 7-Eleven, he can totally make a half-assed picnic. It can’t be any hotter outside than it is inside.

“Bring me my trunks,” Pete says, waving a hand in the direction of his and Patrick’s room. Joe rolls his eyes but goes anyway, jangling the whole way.

“Dude,” he says when he gets back, “are you just not separating laundry out of spite?” He’s holding up both Pete and Patrick’s swim trunks. When Pete tries to swallow, his dry throat clicks. “Or are you just being a dick?”

“You know me,” Pete says, snatching his shorts from Joe’s hand. “Always up for being a dick.” He changes in front of Joe and gets a smug sense of satisfaction when Joe dramatically covers his eyes and wails. “Stop by 7-Eleven. I need beer.”

“You never need beer,” Joe says, kicking Pete’s beat up sneakers at him.

“Obviously you don’t know who you’re talking to.” Pete pulls his sneakers on over his bare feet and doesn’t bother grabbing a shirt. Patrick’s not going to kick him out of the store, and he’s not going to need one at the lake anyway.

Joe's mom's minivan is a hulking beast. Pete pats its ugly maroon side and hops in. The seats are worn from years of carting kids around, grooves in a variety of sizes eroded into the plush cover. Pete skims a hand over the dash. The durability is impressive.

"So," Joe starts as he backs out of the driveway. "Is living with Patrick as good as you thought it would be?" Pete shrugs and stares out the window.

It's better, if he wants to be honest. Three days ago, he'd had an anxiety attack in the living room, had fallen to his knees and clutched at the couch until his hands cramped. He felt like he was dying, heart racing in his chest, throat closing up. And then Patrick was there, gently pulling him away from the couch, holding him close and rocking him like a child.

They haven't talked about it, but Pete has noticed his pills showing up next to breakfast in the morning, a pale little rainbow next to his Cheerios. He takes them without complaint. He's tired of being crazy. They ride to 7-Eleven in silence, listening to the trash on the radio. Pete watches the streets pass by and misses the steadiness of being on tour. He's ready to go back out.

Patrick trips over himself when Pete walks in. Pete smirks to himself and heads for the chip aisle. He's still got it.

He can hear Joe telling Patrick their plans, the weird gait to his words off-putting under the top 40 on the speakers. Pete grabs a family sized bag of Doritos and a tub of ranch, weighing the pros and cons of a second bag. He should probably get a loaf of bread too, but he can’t really be bothered to walk to the opposite side of the store. On his way back to the counter, he grabs the largest case of Budweiser he can carry. He’s ready for a day at the lake.

Joe has half a Twizzler hanging from his mouth when Pete gets to the register. There’s an elderly lady at the lottery counter that looks vaguely scandalized when she catches sight of Pete, but the rest of the store is empty. It all looks so boring.

“None of these are winners,” Patrick says to the woman, chucking a handful of scratch offs into the trash. Her wrinkled little face falls. “Is there anything else you need today, Mrs. Adams?”

“No, honey,” the lady says. She pats his hand, a slow movement that stretches her thin arm out entirely, and turns for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart.” And then she’s hobbling to the door, a new set of scratch offs clutched between her knobbly fingers.

“Shut up,” Patrick says as soon as she’s out the door. Joe grins, his teeth red with food dye. Pete watches the old woman climb into her car and feels something sink in his chest. He wonders if she’s alone. “And you, put on a fucking shirt before you come in.”

Pete shakes his head, plastering on a smile, and says, “Admit it, you love the view.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, scanning the chips and beer without asking for Pete’s ID. There’s still a faint stain of a blush over his cheeks, his eyes downturned as he holds his hand out for payment. Pete can see the edge of a hickey under his collar from this angle, right on the back edge of his neck. Something vicious and satisfied settles in him.

“You want us to pick you up on or way back?” Joe asks as Patrick stuffs Pete’s beer into a bag. Patrick’s been working late shifts, coming home exhausted and sore. Pete’s considered calling the manager—Patrick’s a growing boy after all, needs his sleep—but has been put off by the clingy, sleepy way Patrick crawls into bed with him after a shift.

“Yeah.” Patrick steals half of Joe’s Twizzlers and shoos them out of the store as a group of kids wanders in the door.

One of the girls bumps into Pete, her cool hand resting low on his belly. She looks like someone Jeanae would know, all blonde bob hair and thick eyeliner. She giggles when she apologizes, fingers dipping into the waist of his trunks. It’s not until he’s pushing her away that he remembers he used to live for that ten second window of want. Maybe he’s growing up after all.

The lake is a half hour away. Pete munches on his chips cheerfully in the passenger seat and thinks about how good it’s going to feel to jump into the water. Outside, the world is sunshine yellow and grass stain green, summer giving one last good go before fall.

Joe parks behind a row of family cars, the minivan jerking in the gravel when he stomps down on the brakes. He shrugs sheepishly as he pockets the keys. On their way to the lake, Pete nearly runs face first into a sign post.

"No swimming? Are you kidding me?" Pete slaps his hand against the wooden sign, the creaking of the post under it making him step back. "I've been swimming here since I was a kid. What is this bullshit?"

"Cool your jets, old man Wentz," Joe says, leaning in closer to read the small print on the sign. "There's toxic algae."

"For the love of—" Pete kicks Joe in the ankle and tightens his hold on his case of beer. He's not going to let fucking _algae_ ruin his day.

The lake is murky, the sun glancing off the top of it. The gravel around it looks black and green, slick. Pete plops down and stares into the water. A thick patch of fuzzy green slime floats on past.

"That's kind of gross," Joe says as he sinks down next to him. Pete pulls a beer from the case and pops the tab. He is not fucking amused.

The sun shines down on them, warm against Pete’s skin. There’s barely anyone out, all the cars like ghost houses. Pete wants to unhitch them and send them away, wants to shove them into the lake so they can rot under the water with the algae. When he was a kid this place boomed. When he was a kid, his dad would take him and Hilary swimming until they turned red and wrinkled.

The things that have changed since now and then keep being overpowering. Pete sips his beer, watching the green globs of algae move on by. He just wants something normal, something to hang onto. Beside him Joe is stretched out, t-shirt riding up. He’s going to fall asleep and he’s going to end up with an unflattering red stripe across his stomach.

Pete throws beer can after beer can into the lake, aiming for the blotches. Most of them sink down, bob back up a few feet away, but the last one hits. It floats away slowly, the label rolling into the muck. Pete’s tired of this place.

On their way home, Joe bitches about his sunburn until they’re in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Patrick has two lottery tickets in one hand, a big gulp in the other. He’s the only good thing about Ilinois that’s left. Pete throws the lottery tickets out the window when they’re on the highway, ignoring Patrick’s shouted protests.

“We don’t need luck,” Pete says. The starlight is washed away by the city lights, but the moon is full and heavy above them.

“You’re crazy,” Joe says.

Pete sticks his head out the window, drowning out whatever else they have to say with the sound of rushing wind. He almost thinks he can see the lottery tickets skipping off down the street far behind them. He doesn’t need anything but this.

\---

The first thing Pete thinks when he wakes up is that he’s still dreaming. He’s warm all over, arms and legs sleep heavy, eyes weighted down with sleep. Dull, pleasant tingles creep up his stomach into his chest, spider webbing out all over. He moans softly into his pillow. He hates waking up, but this is definitely a nice way to do it if he has to. When he finally opens his eyes, he sees a flash of Patrick’s smile near his stomach and then his sight goes fuzzy as Patrick ducks down.

Patrick’s mouth is hot and slick around him, stretched wide and open. Pete can’t stop staring, his hips jerking up lazily against the hands holding him steady. There’s a flush across Patrick’s cheeks, and when he opens his eyes they’re dark, his hair still mussed from sleep. Jesus, he’s hot. Pete fists the comforter and tries to speed Patrick’s hand around the base of his dick with his mind.

He feels fingertips brush over his lower lip and he sucks them in, mimics Patrick’s tongue against his cock as best he can, the salt hot taste of Patrick’s skin almost too much this early in the morning. Patrick makes a soft sound around him, and it vibrates all the way up into Pete’s chest, makes a knot in his stomach as he tries to hold off. His own little cocksucking savant, just keeps getting better with time, never seems to have a problem dropping down and sucking Pete off whenever he wants it. Pete shoves up into the heat of Patrick’s mouth and groans.

He whines when Patrick wriggles his fingers away, chasing after them as far as he can, but Patrick presses him back down into the mattress, other palm flat against Pete’s chest. The mattress shifts as Patrick moves up, spreading Pete’s thighs with his knees. Pete wants to watch, wants to see Patrick fuck himself open, but he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open. He nearly falls off the bed when he feels Patrick’s slick fingers slip behind his balls, moving slow but in a definite direction.

“Is this okay?” Patrick asks, a little breathless.

He’s looking up at Pete, mouth swollen and dark, cautious as he runs his fingertips down Pete’s ass. It’s different now, with Patrick here and actually touching him. Pete feels himself go tight all over, freezing. If he does this—if he likes it—he can’t go back. He can’t pretend that this was a fluke, that Patrick was just a hiccup in his life. Patrick starts to pull away, face blank like he knew that Pete would back out. It’s almost worse than seeing disappointment. Pete yanks Patrick back in, shoves his hand down between his legs, and tries not to panic.

“Go for it,” he says. His voice is only a little high.

“Pete,” Patrick says, softly, “you don’t have to do this. You don’t have to, like, prove anything to me.” He’s so level, so considerate. It makes Pete’s stomach twist up. Guilt, maybe.

“Shut up and do it.” Pete closes his eyes and thinks about the way Patrick feels around him, thinks about the way Patrick sounds when Pete’s balls deep in him, the way he goes loose after, smiling like Pete’s given him the moon. It can’t be that bad, if it does that to Patrick.

Patrick kisses him, bites at his lips and makes him pay attention. This is familiar. This Pete can do. He sucks at Patrick’s tongue, feels him solid and warm against him, knows that Patrick’s trying to distract him and tries to throw himself into it.

He feels Patrick moving, feels him reaching for the lube on the dresser. He tries not to think about it, tries to keep focused on the way Patrick’s tracing the insides of his mouth, but he still tenses up when Patrick’s slick finger rubs across his hole. Patrick mumbles soothing things against Pete’s mouth, rubbing small circles around Pete’s asshole, not trying to go in just yet. It makes Pete antsy.

“Just _do_ it,” Pete says, moving his hips down. Patrick moves right along with him.

“Do you want me to go back to sucking you off?” Patrick asks. Normally Pete would laugh at him because _of course_ he wants Patrick to go back to sucking him off, but all he can do is nod.

“Okay, yeah.” And then Patrick’s moving away and sucking Pete’s half hard dick into his mouth like he never stopped. He’s pulling out all his tricks, hitting Pete’s spots in rapid succession; making slick, wet, sloppy sounds that would normally have Pete shooting down his throat like a teenager. But Pete’s focused on the steady pressure of Patrick’s finger against him, anxious instead of turned on. Patrick groans around him. Pete can hear the frustration. His apology is on the tip of his tongue, ready to spill out, but he chokes on it when Patrick leans in and _deep throats him_ , Jesus Christ.

Pete has a second to wonder how long Patrick’s been hiding that trick from him before he short circuits at the feel of Patrick swallowing around him. And wow. _Wow_. If Patrick keeps that up, Pete’s going to lose it way before they get anywhere near fucking. He can’t stop staring at the way Patrick’s mouth is stretched open, red and slick and white at the corners, the way his nose is pressed right to Pete’s stomach, the way his eyes are watering.

He’s about to pull Patrick off, too close to keep it up, when he feels the finger slip inside him.

It’s weird. Pete feels himself go tense all over again, thighs aching from being held apart. Patrick pulls off, his chest heaving with his deep breaths in. He looks like he’s already been fucked, the sun catching the flyaway hairs that are stick straight up, making his pink cheeks look bright. He’s watching Pete closely, so still that it’s almost unnatural.

“Today, Stump,” Pete says. He’s trying to force himself to relax. To suck it up and deal with it. Patrick nods, and then he’s moving his finger in small, barely there circles and everything goes right back out the window.

“You have to work with me if you want to do this,” Patrick says. He sounds rough. The raw scratch of his voice makes Pete’s dick jump. Pete nods, reaches blindly forward to grab a fistful of hair and drag Patrick’s head back down.

Patrick huffs, annoyed or amused Pete can’t tell, but he still licks a wide stripe up Pete’s balls all the way to the head of his cock before sucking him back in, and that’s really all Pete cares about. With Patrick’s mouth hot and eager—always so eager—it’s easier to ignore the strange feeling of Patrick’s finger moving in his ass.

Then Patrick hits something, does something that makes Pete nearly choke him as he jerks up. Patrick pulls off and laughs against Pete’s hip, rubbing against the spot again and again. And wow, so that’s what it feels like. Pete presses down against him, reaches for his own dick and squeezes at the base, sharp enough to hurt.

“Good?” Patrick asks. Pete can only nod dumbly at him, eyes shut tight as tries to hold onto the feeling. “Are you ready for two?”

Pete has no idea if he’s ready for two but he nods again anyway, opening his legs wider. They ache, deep down into the muscle. It’ll be there tomorrow, just under the surface to remind him. He feels Patrick smear lube across his ass, too much to really be comfortable. It drips down between his thighs, makes him sticky and wet and hot, but when Patrick crosses his fingers and presses two in, they slide in easy and Pete feels strange all over again, full like he’s never been.

Patrick sucks at his hip, biting at the skin softly as he presses his fingers in slowly. Carefully, he crooks them, searching for that spot again with the steady thoroughness he has with everything he does. Pete has to bite his knuckles when he finds it. Patrick goes for Pete’s dick, mouths at the base, but Pete pushes him away, fingers curling in Patrick’s hair to keep him away. It’s too much and not enough all at once. Patrick nods, hums nonsense at him as he stretches his own fingers, opens Pete up.

It seems like it goes on forever, Patrick being so fucking careful with him. Pete can foggily remember the first time he fucked Patrick, remembers spitting into his hand and doing a quick one, two before sliding in. His gut twists as he thinks about it.

“I’m ready,” he blurts out.

He’s probably not. It’s probably going to hurt, but he fucking deserves it. Patrick doesn’t stop, keeps working his fingers slow and steady, his thumb brushing up under Pete’s balls on every in stroke. He’s biting his lip, eyes dark and skin pink all the way down to the waist of his shorts. As he tucks a third finger in, careful and easy, Pete feels the ache all the way up into his stomach. He’s selfishly relieved that Patrick’s not going to listen to him.

“This is enough for me,” Patrick says sometime later, when Pete’s thighs are shaking and his cock is leaking like it’s running on tap. “You don’t have to go through with it.” He twists his wrist in a tight motion that makes Pete shudder.

“Jesus, can you just shut up and stick it in?” Pete snaps. He feels like an asshole the second he sees Patrick wince, but he doesn’t take it back.

“Yeah,” Patrick says softly. “Okay.”

Then he’s pulling his fingers out and the absence of them is almost stranger than their presence in the first place. Patrick shimmies out of his boxers and reaches for the lube again, and the sound when he slicks his cock is wet and filthy. He’s watching Pete, jerking himself off slowly, something unrecognizable in his expression. When he puts his hand on Pete’s thigh, spreads him open wider, Pete’s heartbeat picks up. If he’s making the wrong choice, it’s too late to back out now. He feels the head of Patrick’s dick against him and he has to close his eyes. Here’s his defining moment. Here’s his sign.

It hurts, but not like Pete was expecting it to. There’s pressure, pressure, pressure, and then the jolt of the head of Patrick’s cock popping into him, Patrick holding himself so still after. His hands shake on Pete’s thighs. Patrick’s dick isn’t that long, but it’s fat, stretching Pete open wider than his fingers had. Pete tries not to pull away, tries to relax into it, but when Patrick starts to inch forward, teeth clenched and face screwed up, Pete jerks away.

“Stay still,” Patrick says, voice tight. Belatedly, Pete remembers that it’s his first time too, that he’s never fucked anyone before. Not like this. “I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“Just go,” Pete says. He digs his nails into the soft skin at Patrick’s hips and tries to pull him in, but Patrick remains stubbornly still. “Like a band-aid, right?” Patrick laughs. Pete can feel the vibration all the way inside.

“It’s really not.” Still, Patrick presses all the way in until his balls are resting against Pete’s ass, fingers curled around Pete’s knees, holding them apart.

Pete feels—full. Like he’s got something jammed up his ass that’s not supposed to be there. He almost laughs, hysterical, but the way Patrick’s looking at him stops the sound short in his throat. Patrick shifts, moves up higher on his knees. It still feels weird, but the friction is better than Patrick staying still. Pete’s sweating even though he hasn’t moved, the insides of his elbows and knees and thighs damp, sticking to Patrick’s skin.

“I’m gonna...” Patrick pulls back slowly and—wow. That’s weird. He pushes back in faster, the slick slide of his dick like a punch to Pete’s gut.

It’s not bad after that, the feel of Patrick moving in him slow and steady. He’s only half hard, mostly focused on the sounds Patrick’s making, high and desperate and hot. There’s something—Patrick keeps nearly hitting that something from before, the tickle of pleasure curling at the base of Pete’s spine making him feel tight all over. He wiggles a little, moves his hips, cursing when Patrick hits it solidly.

Patrick laughs, breathless, and hikes Pete’s knees up. It pulls at Pete’s stomach, makes his abs ache the longer he stays like that, but it makes it easier for Patrick to hit that spot, helps him speed up. Pete rocks against it as best he can, dick fully hard again against his stomach. He wants to jerk himself off but he can’t make his hands work.

Patrick rolls his hips in smooth motions that make Pete’s slick thighs shake under his palms. He does it again, grinding against Pete’s ass, and fuck. Fuck. It feels fucking great, Pete’s fingertips numb from it. He can understand how Patrick gets off on it, how Patrick can come back for more.

“I want to—let me try—” Patrick pulls out, arms shaking as he moves. After a moment, Pete blinks up at him, confused. Things were going great. Why is Patrick stopping? “Can you...” Patrick tugs on Pete’s hip until Pete rolls over, and. Oh.

Pete lifts up onto his knees, feeling oddly vulnerable as he presses his hot face into his arms. He feels Patrick’s hand ghost down his back, thumb tracing the bumps of his spine all the way down, and then Patrick’s fingers are in him again, wet with lube and not really enough now. Pete presses into them, opens his thighs up wider when he feels the mattress shift behind him.

Patrick’s dick goes in easier this time, slips right inside and makes Pete groan. He doesn’t hold back, thrusting in sharp, short movements that leave Pete’s chest sore for breath. He can feel Patrick’s balls slapping against the backs of his thighs, steady, the sound of it ringing in the room. Pete bites his wrist, tries not to moan out loud when Patrick reaches around and fists his dick. If he were a lesser man, he’d cry from relief.

It’s almost too much. Pete closes his eyes tight, burying his face into the mattress as Patrick fucks him, hand working just a little faster than his hips. His sticky hot thighs cling to Pete’s. Pete gives up on being quiet—thinks, fuck it, this is my house—and curls his mouth around as many _fucks_ , and _Patricks_ , and _Jesus Christs_ , as he can. He feels Patrick laugh more than he hears it, feels the way his stomach shakes a little and the way his chest rumbles when he leans in over Pete’s back. There’s so much sensation everywhere.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” Patrick says, clipped.

Really, Pete’s surprised he’s lasted as long as he has, so he can’t really complain. Pete’s first time, he’d shot almost straight out the gate. Patrick’s fingers tighten around him, his rhythm faltering. His hips jerk once, twice, three times, and then he goes still, pressed flush against Pete’s ass, and woah. Woah. That means what Pete thinks it means. Gross.

“Fuck.” Patrick’s shaky as he pulls out, barely able to hold himself up. If it was weird going in, it’s even weirder coming out. 

Pete unclenches a hand from the sheets and reaches down, ready to finish himself off with a few quick pulls. Before he can, Patrick bats his hand away, ignoring Pete’s whine. He shoves weakly at his hip until Pete gets the hint and rolls onto his back, thighs screaming. Patrick flops forward a little, elbows sinking into the mattress as he lowers his head to Pete’s cock.

It’s sloppier than usual, lazier, but the flush over Patrick’s cheeks—the warm, awed way he’s looking up at Pete—is hot enough that Pete doesn’t really care. He’s close, so fucking close, when Patrick shoves two fingers into him, sudden and sure. When he crooks them, rubs his fingertips over that spot that makes Pete feel twitchy all over, Pete comes, arching up into his mouth.

“Holy shit,” Pete mutters as Patrick pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. Patrick grins, loose and happy, easing his fingers out slowly. Pete can feel the wetness there- Patrick’s come there, weird- and he’s already sore, aware of the entire area like he usually isn’t.

Patrick crawls up next to him, reaching for the sheet as he goes along. They should probably clean up. He feels disgusting, at least, and Patrick looks like he’s just come back from a show, which is kind of gross even for them- but Pete’s loose and content. He lets Patrick curl up on his chest, cheek pressed to Pete’s shoulder, and combs his fingers through Patrick’s tangled hair. It looks like gold in the sun filtering through the curtains.

“Guess I’m queer after all,” Pete says softly. Patrick scratches lazy, meaningless patterns across Pete’s arm, white streaks trailing after his fingertips like paint.

“And it only took you over a year of fucking a dude to figure it out,” he says dryly. Despite himself, Pete laughs, Patrick’s head bouncing on his chest as he lets it loose. He feels lighter. Less afraid. Patrick hums like he can hear his thoughts, digging the back of his skull into the soft spot above Pete’s armpit until he’s comfortable. “Now shut up and sleep.”

To his surprise, Pete does.

\---

The van feels like home.

Pete’s sprawled across the middle row, feet up against the windows, watching trees pass by in a green blur. It’s too hot inside with the air conditioner broken, leaving them all cranky. Patrick’s driving, which means they’re probably going to be ten minutes late. Behind him, Andy and Joe are bickering about Green Day albums, throwing lazy barbs at one another without any heat.

They’re headed to Iowa, following the twisting path of roads on day twelve of tour. The van already stinks like too many dudes shoved into a small space. Patrick sweats too much and Joe smokes too much and Pete hasn’t washed the gel out of his hair in over a week, and the stains he leaves behind smell kind of like fast food places do. But with the windows open it’s barely noticeable under the fresh, sharp smell of the summer air. Still, the road helps Pete sleep when nothing else does, and the kids they see on a nightly basis have been singing along word for word. Pete’s got something a lot like faith riding along on the roof.

In the apartment, there’s six letters stamped with bill collector return addresses. College coming back to bite him in the ass. If they don’t make some sort of profit on this tour, he’s completely fucked. He hasn’t told the guys, doesn’t want to put pressure on them, but it’s weighing heavy on his shoulders at each gig. So far they’re doing okay, but Pete can’t risk anything less than great if he wants to be able to keep doing this.

They’re only five minutes late. Joe scrambles out first, stretching his arms up high over his head and blocking the passage for the rest of them. He’s getting bigger, scrawny little hips and shoulders filling out with each day. Pete feels traitorously old as he shoves him out of the way. Twenty-two feels a lot like thirty some days.

Pete checks in, scribbles down their names and takes their passes and drink bands with a nod before wandering back out to help haul their equipment in. If he drags his feet long enough, all he’ll only have to carry wires. When he’s rounding the corner of the building, he sees Joe and Patrick scuffling around their unloaded gear.

“You,” Joe says grandly, peeking at Patrick over the third largest of their amps, “need to get laid.”

Pete barely holds back a snort. He’s pretty sure Patrick gets laid more in a week than Joe ever has in his life. He hangs back though, curious, and watches the pinkness crawl up Patrick’s cheeks.

“I’m good,” Patrick mumbles, hefting up half of the amp with a huff.

“No, seriously, like, you can get girls, man,” Joe continues. He nearly falls backward over the curb when Patrick walks too fast, scrambling to keep himself upright. There’s a vicious part of Pete that’s sad to see him catch himself. “You’re in a band! That’s gold.”

“I’m not interested,” Patrick says again, voice going muffled as they pass through the doors.

Pete leans against the side wall and taps his head against the brick. Fucking Joe, Jesus. The kid never could mind his own business. Pete’s aching to hit something, fist already cocked, tension buzzing under his skin. He digs his knuckles into his thigh and breathes out slow. It’s stupid to get worked up over. It’s not like he has anything to worry about. Not with Patrick.

The doors swing open, smashing into the wall with a bang, and there’s Joe’s voice again, nasal and lisping saying, “Have you ever?”

“Joe, can you just drop it?” Patrick’s voice is tight. The pinkness of his face has changed to red, the same shade as when he’s putting up with Pete’s bullshit on a long night of sleeplessness. He’s moving from embarrassed to pissed at a quick pace.

“You haven’t? Seriously?” Joe does fall back on his ass when Patrick whips around, hand raised. He blinks up from the ground, baby wide eyes suddenly too sharp for Pete to look at. “It’s okay, man. You just haven’t met the right girl or whatever.”

“Joe, Jesus fucking Christ, _let it go_.” Patrick turns on his heel and punches the van, knuckles hitting it with a solid crash. He does it again. The dent left in the side of the van is visible from where Pete’s hiding out. The third time, Joe scrambles up and grabs his wrist before it makes contact, dodging the wild headbutt Patrick aims at him.

“Dude, hey, _hey_.” Joe grabs his face, locks him in place. “It’s cool. It’s alright.”

Patrick’s hand is swollen. He’s holding it to his chest, cradling it gently. Joe’s still touching him, still babbling nonsense as the color drains from Patrick’s cheeks. They’re both so young, babies playing adults.

“You don’t like girls, do you?” Joe asks when Patrick’s stopped moving altogether.

Patrick shakes his head, silent. Joe hugs him, wraps him up in his scrawny arms and tugs him in, holds him tight up against his chest. Without pause, Patrick sinks into him and drops his head to Joe’s shoulder, his injured fist crushed between them. His shoulders are shaking, soft enough that Pete can barely see it.

“It’s okay,” Joe says, quiet and comforting. “It’s alright, man. You’re okay.” His fingers tangle up in the ends of Patrick’s hair, tugging in a slow, even rhythm. “Anyone else know?” Patrick shakes his head, and Pete’s stomach clenches. He’d never thought about it before, if anyone else knew that Patrick’s gay. “We’ll find you a dude. No big deal. Being in a band is twice as awesome if you’re looking for a dude, right?”

Patrick’s arms come up around Joe’s waist as he gives a short huffing laugh. Pete has to leave, has to get away before the guilt, the anger, wells up and kills him. Pete heads to the bar. He flashes his stupid wristband at the bartender and orders a double shot of Black Velvet. It burns going down but he doesn’t feel the two that follow it at all. After them, he doesn’t feel much of anything but a swelling of his skin and brain and lungs.

Patrick finds him before the local band opening for them starts sound check. His hand is wrapped, too thick to be Andy’s work. Probably Joe’s instead. Pete doesn’t know how they’re going to pack up in their time limit with him out of the picture, how Patrick’s going to take his shift at the wheel.

“What happened to your hand?” Pete asks. He stumbles over his words a little, almost amused when he sees Patrick frown.

“Nothing,” Patrick says, tucking it behind his back. He looks guilty. Pete digs his nails into his palms until his fingertips feel numb. At least he’s not the only liar here.

“Nothing. Right.” Pete raps on the bar and holds up two fingers. When his shots arrive, he hands one to Patrick, the glass slipping against his damp fingertips. Patrick has to hurry to catch it, strong right hand fucked up, bandages going dark and wet with liquor.

“What are you doing?” Patrick hisses. He looks outraged as Pete knocks back his drink. “We’re on in an hour.”

Pete laughs. Jesus, this is so stupid.

“You gonna tell me you’re fine?” Pete asks. He sneers when Patrick opens his mouth to say yes. Stupid kid. Stupid, _stupid_ kid. “Make a fist.”

Patrick tries because he’s bullheaded, and he somehow succeeds with clenched teeth and a red face. It’s got to be agonizing. Pete flicks the wrap around his knuckles and smiles sharply when Patrick hisses.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Patrick cups his hand to his chest again, holding it just above his heart. Under the gauze, he’s probably already turning seven shades of green and blue. Before Pete can answer, Joe pops up, dragging a tech behind him. He glowers at Pete, eyes on the whiskey in his hand. Christ, they’ve been spying on him. The tech is young enough to have an x scribbled over the back of his hand, dark hair falling into his face in a mess. When he smiles and waves, he shows dimples.

“This is Darren,” Joe says as he shoves himself between Pete and Patrick, throwing his arm over Pete’s shoulders. “Darren, this is Patrick.” The way he says it makes Pete want to hit him. When Patrick doesn’t move, Joe elbows him, spilling out the last of the shot across the floor.

“Joe said you needed someone to fill in tonight,” Darren says. His voice is lower than Pete’s, thick with an accent that isn’t local. “He, uh, said you’d run the basics by me?”

“Yeah, sure.” Patrick flexes his injured hand and sets the glass onto the bar. He doesn’t look at Pete as he leaves, already mumbling about simplifying the parts to chords.

“What are you doing?” Pete asks, shrugging Joe off. Joe frowns, tapping his fingers on the bar.

“Patrick’s hand’s too fucked up to play,” Joe says. “Anyway, Patrick and Darren have a lot in common.” Outside, there’s a wail of a siren. Pete can feel the tension in his shoulders spreading.

“You don’t know shit about Patrick,” Pete hisses.

He shoves Joe into the counter, violence raging inside him. There’s almost nothing good in his life, and this little shit’s trying to take what he’s got. The sound of Joe’s hip hitting is soft, muffled under his clothes, but Pete knows it hurts, knows there’s going to be a bruise where he collided.

Joe narrows his eyes and steps up into Pete’s space, shoves a finger into his face. Joe’s never been a fighter, was always the one to bring peace when everyone else were at each other’s throats. He’s small and has no experience. Pete can take him if he has to. Can beat the fuck out of him before anyone even notices, and Joe knows it.

“If you have a problem with him, you can fuck yourself,” Joe spits.

He curls his hand into a fist, knuckles going white under the yellow glow of the bar lights. He’s loyal like a puppy, something Pete’s always loved about him. Right now, it makes Pete want to drive him straight into the hardwood.

“I have a problem with _you_ ,” Pete sneers. He’s about to get up when Andy pops out of nowhere, fingers curling tight around Pete’s bicep.

“Help me set up the merch table,” he says tersely. The dig of his jagged nails into Pete’s skin leaves Pete no choice.

Andy doesn’t leave his side until showtime. Pete grabs up his bass and thumps it against his body. He paces at side stage like a caged animal, vision fuzzy. If he has a shot or two more, he’ll probably puke. He’s restless, sick. Darren’s next to Patrick, one of Patrick’s guitars slung over his shoulder. He keeps looking over, eyes half lidded, sending Patrick small smiles.

When they get on the stage. Patrick folds his arm behind his back, bad hand loose as he sings as bold and bright as ever. Darren’s watching him steadily, smiling like he’s in on a joke. Halfway through the set, he bumps into Patrick, leans against him like he belongs there. It pisses Pete off on the lowest level. He can’t stand by and watch this happen. He won’t be replaced by some fucking techie.

The audience cheers when Pete rams into Darren, wrenching the mic in front of him off the stand. He yells into it, probably a half beat too soon, but this is his part. This is _his_ band, and _his_ words, and _his fucking life_. Not _Darren’s_. Pete plasters himself to Patrick’s side, mouths the words he wrote against Patrick’s damp tshirt. Patrick goes still next to him, doesn’t look at him as he rockets through the chorus. Pete wants to swallow him whole, keep him tucked away from assholes like Joe and Darren, keep him safe inside.

“You’re mine,” he says when Andy starts in on the last song of the set, hand curling in the collar of Patrick’s shirt. “You’re mine.”

Pete drops his mic when they’re done and heads back off stage. Patrick bolts. Pete races after him. Patrick’s no good at running, too predictable and slow. Even drunk Pete has no problem catching up to him. He pins Patrick up against the wall and makes him stay. Patrick doesn’t speak, lips pressed together tight enough to drain the blood from them. Usually it’s what Pete wants, his easy out, his get out of jail free card, but now the silence is deafening.

“I meant it,” Pete says. His voice is hoarse from yelling. It sounds ragged and desperate to his own ears. “No one else gets to—”

“Joe set up a date,” Patrick says tightly. His eyes are so, so dark. “He thinks I’m too shy or nervous or what the fuck ever to get one on my own. And it would be fucking great to tell him I’ve already got a boyfriend that I fucking _love_ , even though he’s the biggest fucking asshole I know. Too bad I can’t.” He shoves at Pete’s shoulders until Pete stumbles back. Boyfriend. He’s always been a shitty boyfriend. When Patrick runs his hands through his hair, he looks much older than seventeen. “I’m tired of being your dirty secret.”

“Patrick. I love you. You _know_ that.”

Patrick laughs. It’s an ugly sound. He says, “You keep saying it. Jesus Pete, I want to fucking...” He tugs at his hair, bandaged hand stark against the sweaty darkness of it. “I want to hold hands with my boyfriend. I want to go on dates. I want—I want something normal!”

“I can’t be normal,” Pete says quietly. Patrick’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him.

“I know.” Patrick scrubs his hands over his face, knocking his head against the wall. He looks tired. “I’ve never asked you for anything. Can you just. Jesus, can I at least tell Joe so he doesn’t, like, ship me off to the nearest gay teens meeting?”

Impulse has always been Pete’s strong suit, and it keeps him company when he sees the flash of Joe’s ugly shirt, when he hears Andy’s voice around the corner. He fists a hand in Patrick’s shirt and yanks him forward until their teeth click. It’s the least romantic thing he’s ever done, but Patrick kisses him back, understands what he’s doing without Pete having to say anything. The relief that wells up in Pete’s chest is almost unbearable.

“I think he knows now,” Pete says against Patrick’s mouth. Patrick laughs again, high and sweet, the sound of Joe and Andy catcalling muffled under it.

When they get back into the van hours later, Pete lays his head on Patrick’s lap and tangles his fingers up in Patrick’s, staring up at Joe in the rearview mirror. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but what he gets is Joe grinning at him, big and wide like he has any clue what’s going on. The engine turns over noisily, the van lurching out of the parking lot. Pete’s known Andy long enough to know he’s wearing his _I told you so_ face. He ignores both of them.

He doses off and on, the road and Patrick’s soft humming a lullaby for his tired ears. Patrick’s fingers comb through his hair, the gauze around them reeking like whiskey, catching flyaway strands and tugging. It feels nice, the not panicking. The not being afraid.

He’s mostly asleep when he hears Joe asking quietly, “How long?”

Patrick shrugs, his shoulders pulling up and Pete’s head falling closer into the warmth of his stomach. He says, “I’m not really sure. A year. Longer.” If his eyes were open, Pete’s pretty sure he’d know exactly what color pink Patrick is turning. “It’s complicated.”

“Is he treating you okay?” Andy asks. Pete bristles, hands curling into fists at his sides. He’s not the fucking bad guy. There is no bad guy.

“You don’t know Pete,” Patrick says low and almost as angry as Pete feels. “And I’m not a kid. I know how to take care of myself.”

Alley, blood on his mouth and knuckles and collar, swinging blind and angry and vicious. Not a total lie, but not really the truth either.

Andy drops it. Joe asks enough questions to build a house on, more curious than invasive. He’s like a brother, Pete thinks. An annoying baby brother. Patrick answers each question carefully. Pete squirms uncomfortably when Joe asks about the first time they did it, voice congealed with awe and humor. Patrick shrugs. Says he was drunk, doesn’t remember. He doesn’t tell Joe that Pete kicked him out after, doesn’t mention how Pete found his fake id under his bed three weeks later, laminated and smelling faintly of rum.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything, dude?” Joe eventually asks. Pete knows he’s thinking about Jeanae, knows that Joe has a faint timeline in his head. They’ve all been living in each other’s pockets for too long.

“It’s hard,” Patrick says quietly.

Joe stops asking questions, apparently satisfied with whatever he’s found. Patrick slides a fingertip over Pete’s jaw, taps it at the square ridge under his ear. He knows Pete’s awake.

“Get some sleep,” he whispers.

And Pete does.

\---

“I’m going to do this, and you’re not going to say a fucking word about it,” Pete hisses.

They’re at the smallest mall Pete’s ever seen, wandering around in the hopes of finding a few pairs of cheap jeans. They’re due in Pennsylvania in another day, but they’ve got plenty of time if they stick Andy in the driver’s seat. It’s the first day off they’ve had so far, and the fact that it happens to fall on Patrick’s birthday, well. Pete’s always been good at planning. The mall is full, summer time calling to the kids like a dinner bell, the air full of the sharp smell of pretzels and the high chatter of the crowd around them.

Pete wipes his palm over the coarse denim stretched over his thigh to clear away the clamminess. This is stupid, he tells himself. Just do it. Patrick’s watching him, bemused, stupid home done haircut fresh and sticking up at his ears where he missed. He belongs in places like this. Places for kids. Places for babies.

Pete has to look away. He links his fingers with Patrick’s determinedly, presses their palms together lifeline to lifeline, and drags him down the strip, aimed towards the JC Penny’s at the far end of the mall. When he glances over, Patrick’s head is ducked, but there’s a smile curled up at the corners of his mouth.

It makes Pete’s heart swell. This—this isn’t that bad. Not really. There’s a few looks, but it could be because of the stench that’s probably following them around like a cartoon cloud. Patrick’s shoulder keeps bumping against Pete’s, his hip knocking against Pete’s, and it’s—nice.

Patrick snatches a few jeans off the clearance rack, glancing at the tags before going to ring them up. The pair he’s wearing now are baggy and old—soft from wear, a pair of comfort jeans—the knees ripped out. The holes are big enough that Pete can see the scars on Patrick’s shins from a bad skateboarding accident years ago. Usually when he sees Patrick reach for them he makes as many blowjob jokes as he can. One day Patrick will stop getting embarrassed about it, but until then, Pete’s going to exploit it shamelessly.

Somehow, it’s easier to take Patrick’s hand again as they’re heading back out toward the food court.

Joe and Andy don’t even bat an eye when they settle in across from them at a table. They’ve been stupidly okay about Pete and Patrick’s thing. Pete wants to keep pushing, keeps expecting one of them to call them fags and throw a punch. It’s stupid and he _knows_ it’s stupid, but he can help the niggling fear at the back of his brain. Joe grins and raises his eyebrows at Patrick when he thinks Pete isn’t looking. They really, really have nothing to worry about here.

“Andy found a house party,” Joe announces around a mouthful of cheese fries. Gooey melted cheese sauce drips down onto his chin and then onto the table. He wipes at his mouth with the back of his wrist, shrugging at the disgusted look Andy’s staring him down with. “It’s not a birthday party, but I’m sure that you can, you know. Get a room or whatever.”

“You really didn’t just say that,” Patrick groans, covering his face with his free hand.

Joe’s been on a personal mission to get them as much alone time as he can. Pete’s torn between being amused and being supremely, supremely frustrated. He’s heard Joe and Patrick talking in the back, listened in on them when he was supposed to be asleep. Joe’s got hoards of questions and Patrick’s got hoards of answers. They’re like gossiping school girls. It’s disgusting.

“If you’re so interested in gay sex, you can come along,” Pete says cheerily, trying to keep the bite out of his voice.

He gets it. Joe’s trying to be supportive or whatever. It doesn’t stop it from being frustrating as hell. Joe blanches and immediately drops the subject. At least there’s that.

They spend the rest of the day roaming the mall, peeking in at stores that they can’t really afford to shop in. While they’re browsing a toy shop, Pete slips away and buys a tiny toy drum. It’s old, made of painted wood and stretched plastic. Two small sticks jut out of the steel rings screwed onto the side of the drum, the same shiny kind of wood as the regular sized ones Andy uses.

He presents it to Patrick when they get back to the van. It’s such a stupid thing, but he can’t really afford to buy him anything he’d want. When they had been in the record store, he’d seen Patrick’s fingers gliding over the sleeves carefully, reverently, and it had almost physically ached to watch the disappointment on his face when he put them back, not even bothering to glance at the price tags.

One day, they’ll have money. One day, they’ll have their own records and their own whatever the fuck they want, and Patrick will have enough records to choke on.

“I know, deep down in your tiny little soul, there’s a drummer somewhere,” Pete says as he hands the drum off.

The streetlights in the parking lot make the steel bands glow. Patrick looks confused as he takes it, but he still rubs a thumb over the head and thumps it twice. The stupid smile that he aims at the chipping paint does something strange to Pete’s chest that he never can quite get over.

“You know,” Patrick says as he tucks the drum into the back carefully. “Andy told me that you didn’t ask him to be part of the band for a few days after I auditioned.”

He’s not saying anything, but Pete can hear the implication in his voice. He’s not wrong.

\---

When they arrive, the party is already in full swing. People are crammed into every room, screeching with laughter, voices closing in on all the silent air outside and crushing it away. Patrick reaches for the first red cup he sees and drags Pete to the guy playing DJ in the living room. The thump, thump, thump of the too loud bass makes Pete’s legs shake, the sound sinking all the way into his shins and kneecaps. The whole house smells like spilled alcohol.

It feels a lot less like courage and more like need when Pete tentatively touches his fingertips to Patrick’s palm again. He feels so weak around Patrick, crumbling away into another person. He hates himself more days than not when he’s Pete Wentz. Maybe being someone else isn’t the worst thing in the world. Patrick’s fingers are cool when they curl around his, his smile just short of awestruck. Pete can—Pete can deal with this.

They don’t know a damn person, but people know them. A few ask for them to sign caps and wrists and t-shirts. Pete scrawls down his sketchy signature, loops his letters with Patrick’s. He’s done this before with Arma, but Patrick looks kind of bemused even as he smiles and nods and fumbles his way through compliments. Someone asks if they can hear a song and a couple of others cheer through their drinks. Patrick goes a little pink, closed in with people talking over each other. Panicky.

“If you want to see us, there’s a show in Pittsburgh tomorrow,” Pete half-shouts over the steady thump of Mindless Self Indulgence from the speakers. He throws an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, pulling him in. A few of the crowd grumble but most of them wander away when Pete doesn’t let go. “You want to get out of here?”

Pete’s going whether Patrick comes or not. He can’t handle the noise.

Patrick nods, lets Pete guide him to the doors. They should probably let Joe or Andy know where they’re going in case something happens, but Pete keeps his mouth shut. It kind of feels like they’re running away, the two of them out against everything else. It’s daunting but nice. In it’s own way.

The air is cool when they step outside, winter coming up on them early. Their breath is barely visible in half clouds now that the sun has gone down. Pete doesn’t know where he’s going but Patrick follows him anyway, holds onto his hand and doesn’t ask a single question about anything. It’s the kid’s eighteenth birthday, and he’s still chasing Pete like he was at sixteen, young and infinitely stupid with his trust.

Somewhere between ten and twenty blocks away from the house party, Pete sees a glowing Sunoco sign. He’s got maybe five bucks in his pocket. It won’t be a great birthday dinner or anything, but he can spring for cupcakes and a super sized hot chocolate if nothing else.

He pays for them, the wrapper of the cupcakes crinkling in his hand as he juggles them and his wallet and Patrick’s hand, unwilling to let go now that he’s finally letting himself hold on. Patrick’s watching him with the same kind of confused amusement that he always does, letting Pete bounce his arm around. The cashier’s not looking at all.

“Happy birthday,” Pete says when they’re outside again, handing over the hot chocolate.

“I think my birthday’s actually over,” Patrick says around the rim of the cup. He doesn’t sound too disappointed. Pete can’t remember his eighteenth birthday, lost it in the hazy run of memories at the end of his teenage years. It’s probably good. Eighteen is never good to anyone.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Pete says cheerfully as he tears open the cupcake wrapper.

They’re wandering around the streets, no real destination in mind. His phone buzzed in his pocket a few minutes ago, probably Andy on the warpath after realizing they’d gone. Pete lets it sit. This is good. He misses being alone sometimes. A lot of the time.

He looks over at Patrick, at the way he’s sucking the cream in the middle of his birthday cupcake out unselfconsciously and amends that. He misses being alone with Patrick. The rest of the world is too loud.

When they pass a fenced in park, Pete tugs him over to it. It takes a few minutes of wheedling, but Patrick finally sighs, knocks back the last of the hot chocolate, and sticks his foot into a gap in the links. It’s hilarious watching him try to scramble up. Pete doesn’t offer any help either, just watches Patrick’s ass wiggle as his legs shake with each step up.

“I hate you,” Patrick says from the top of the fence. His face is red, a little blotchy. It’s stupid how attractive he looks right then, sweaty and young and hanging on like he’s going to fall off at any second.

“You love me, Stump.” Pete clambers up after him and jumps off when he reaches the top, tucking and rolling. There’s a flashback of snow in his driveway, of a car door slamming, but then the world stops blurring and he sees Patrick still hanging on, straddling the top of the fence nervously. “Come on. I got you.”

Patrick climbs down slowly, one anxious foot after another. When he can reach, Pete wraps his hands around Patrick’s waist, helps guide him down. Patrick’s too heavy for him to lift, but that doesn’t really stop Pete from trying. They go down hard. Pete laughs, the wind knocked out of him, Patrick’s elbow dug solidly into his gut.

“That could have gone better,” Patrick wheezes.

“Maybe,” Pete agrees.

The grass is cool and a little damp under Pete’s back. It’s good once Patrick gets settled down, shoulder no longer crushing Pete’s chest, elbows on the ground. Pete can remember laying like this with Jeanae, her tiny hips between his thighs, her head pillowed against his chest. Patrick doesn’t fit quite as well—too big in the middle, not soft in the right places—but he smiles up at Pete, crooked and sweet, and Pete can’t bring himself to make Patrick move.

They lay like that for a long time, quiet. There’s something about the way Pete’s hand fits against Patrick’s shoulder blade that’s endlessly fascinating. Pete can’t stop pressing his palm to the ridge of bone, putting pressure down onto the skin until Patrick makes a soft noise. He can’t see Patrick’s face where it’s buried into his shirt, but he can feel the way his nose wrinkles when Pete presses too hard, can feel the warm spot where he’s breathing.

He’s been going crazy for days. This—the park, Patrick calm and not quite sleeping on top of him—makes his head settle a little. If there were no one else in the world, Pete would scream out from the tops of his lungs, would let it all out until he had nothing left to give. He’s tired of himself. But Patrick—stupid, wonderful fucking Patrick—is stuck on him like he hasn’t been the world’s biggest asshole since day one.

“Hey, Patrick,” Pete says quietly.

Patrick hums, sleepy voice somewhere in the vicinity of Pete’s navel. He rolls his head, props his chin on Pete’s stomach. It kind of hurts, the bone grinding down into Pete’s abs, but the view of Patrick’s droopy eyes is worth it.

“Me and you, we’re—”

“Shut up, Pete,” Patrick says and thumps his forehead down. It makes Pete breathless for a second. “We’re fine. We’re golden. You’re stupid. For the record.”

“Yeah, well.” Pete combs his fingers through the hair that’s sticking up at the back of Patrick’s head. It pops back up after every pass, but it’s soothing. Comforting. Patrick hums again. “You’re not going to decide you’re sick of me, right?”

“Oh my god, if you don’t stop ruining the moment, I’m going to crush your balls.” Patrick wiggles a little as if to show Pete how easy it would be.

“It’s a serious question,” Pete says. Patrick doesn’t answer him, just pinches his side weakly and goes back to not-quite sleeping. It’s not as alarming as Pete thinks it should be.

There’s only a few days left of tour, and then they’ll be back to Illinois. His list of contacts has been steadily growing, his phone filling up with roadmaps to success. He’s on a mission to make them famous, one city at a time. They’re going places. He knows they are. He curls his fingers in Patrick’s hair and closes his eyes. They’re going to be great.

When Pete’s phone has buzzed in his pocket six times in a row, he reluctantly shakes Patrick’s shoulder. His back is killing him, but he hasn’t felt so relaxed in months. He and Patrick stumble up together, heavy limbed. The air has gone from cool to cold, goosebumps on their skin from it. Pete wishes he had thought to bring a warmer hoodie, thinks about the one Patrick was sleeping on earlier, stuffed into the van behind the driver’s seat.

At the fence, right before Patrick can start his clumsy way up, Pete shoves him into it. He steps into Patrick’s space and kisses him. Dimly, he can feel the links of it against his fingers where he’s holding on, arms on either side of Patrick’s head. Mostly, all he can think of is how this is where he’s supposed to be. Patrick fists his hand in Pete’s shirt and kisses him back.

The sun is up when they get back to the van, tripping over one another and laughing too loud for the hour. Andy looks pissed off, but Joe, who’s reclining on the roof of the van, shoots them a thumbs up before tumbling down onto the driver’s side. There’s a sore patch of skin at the base of Pete’s throat that he can’t stop prodding at and a matching one against the paper white of Patrick’s.

It was a good birthday for a teenager, Pete thinks as they drive away, heading one show closer to home.

\---

Pete’s stupid giddy to be home. He kisses his mom on the cheek and hugs his dad and siblings and watches Patrick do the same to his mom and brother. There’s a hopeful sounding e-mail in their collective inbox about possibly signing to an indie label and an opening spot on a tour. Pete’s never been so happy about anything in his life.

There are way more kids than Pete’s used to at the hall. They’re all cramped inside, yelling and hollering in front of the stage, laughing along with the house music. Pete watches them from the wings and feels a flutter of hope. He hasn’t fucked this up. He hasn’t run it into the ground.

It’s the same songs and the same stage banter from the last three months, but Pete feels new life in it as he plays, as he talks about how awesome it is to be there, how much he loves them all for showing up. It doesn’t even feel like a lie anymore. He does love them, every single face; fat girls and frat boys and scene kids for days. They’re his people.

The music pumps through his veins, gives him a reason to scream and yell and throw himself around the stage. He climbs the support at the side of the stage, feeling reckless and invincible. The steel feels splintered under his hands, fingertips itching with it as he goes up, up, up. The eyes of the crowd are on him, watching him with awe.

Look at me, he thinks. I am nothing like what you think I am. Look at me and fucking love me for being a disaster.

When he jumps, he feels like he’s flying. The crowd catches him—hands everywhere all at once, holding on too tight and not tight enough—and ships him back up to the front where security shoves him back onto the stage, smacking into Patrick’s legs. Patrick’s watching him too, eyes dark and face pink and sweaty from the lights. They fucked before the show, quick and dirty in the bathroom, their voices ricocheting off the walls. Pete can almost still feel Patrick tight and hot around him.

Pete wants to kiss him, wants to shove all his energy into Patrick’s mouth and watch him suck it down, watch him feel the craziness, the way Pete’s insides are shaking. Mostly he wants to get home and feel their mattress on his knees, wants to stain their sheets up and watch Patrick sleep for hours after. Wants to shove him until he shoves back, until he pins Pete down and makes the things in his head quiet down.

Patrick smiles at him, mouth pressed to his mic as he sings out to the kids raging in front of them. He licks it—which should be disgusting, Pete’s seen where it’s been—but it still makes heat billow up Pete’s spine. He’s going to let Patrick fuck him through the mattress tonight, going to use up the rest of voice shouting Patrick’s name into the pillows. If he gets anymore energy in him, he’s going to straight up explode.

When the show’s over, kids line up at their merch table and ask for autographs. Pete signs until his hand cramps up, smiling too wide for it to be real. This is everything he’s always wanted. The fame of it, the attention. The awe and the tears. They’ve barely got a CD out, something shitty, done in Patrick’s basement with borrowed equipment. He can’t wait to see what happens when they record for real.

At the far end of the table, Joe and Patrick are fighting with a pair of Andy’s back up sticks, laughing big and wide and loud. They’re making lightsaber sounds that are audible over the house music. His band. His people. It’s overwhelming. For once, he’s happy. Really and truly happy.

Joe and Andy hug them goodbye after they’re finally booted out of the club. Joe waggles his eyebrows and mimes a blowjob, laughing when Pete flips him the bird. It feels a lot like homesickness as Pete watches them climb into the van. His throat hurts but it has nothing on the sheer euphoria that’s settling in under his ribs. Home, home, home with Patrick and music and no plans for days.

He doesn’t think about it, just reaches down and laces his fingers with Patrick’s. They fit him well, slip right in the gaps like they’ve belonged there forever. Patrick tries to pull away, twisting his wrist, but Pete doesn’t let him. He just needs to hang on for a little while. They’re his rules. He doesn’t have to follow them.

The walk home isn’t that long but it’s long enough for Pete to wish they had asked for a ride. They only get a few blocks before Patrick leans on him, yawning big enough to crack his jaw. The idiot is still dressed for summer even though they’re tripping into autumn, the leaves around them already turning brown. Pete rubs at Patrick’s bare bicep with his free hand and wonders idly if he should give Patrick his hoodie. There’s a snap of a twig behind them and then—

“I knew it.”

Fuck.

Jeanae’s just as beautiful now as she was when she slammed the car door behind her over a year ago. Her mouth is turned down in an ugly scowl, eyeliner smeared around her eyes and bleeding down onto her cheeks. She was probably at the show. She probably watched him watch Patrick all night, probably connected the dots way before now. She’s always been smarter than people give her credit for.

“Jeanae—”

Patrick's eyes blink open, his head lifting from where it had been resting on Pete’s shoulder. Pete tries to let go of him, tries to drop his hand, but Patrick doesn’t let him. He tightens his fingers until they’re pinching Pete’s, their knuckles grinding together.  
Pete’s panicking. He can’t breathe.

It was okay in other places, for people to know. There they were just strange faces. No one knew his name or where he lived. No one gave a fuck. The look on Jeanae’s face tells him that everyone is going to know soon, and that his life as a regular guy is over. He’s not going to be Pete anymore. He’s going to be that fag in that band, that homo down the street.

“All those times you broke up with me,” Jeanae starts, walking in closer. Her heels click on the sidewalk. They sound like gunfire. “It was because you like dick. You fucking asshole. I gave you my heart and you couldn’t even tell me that you’re a faggot...”

“He broke up with you all those times because you’re a bitch.” Patrick yawns, rubbing his cheek against Pete’s shoulder. Jeanae splutters, lipstick red mouth hanging open. “You’re needy and whiny and dress like a skank. Don’t blame it on me.”

“You fat fuck,” Jeanae spits. She stomps closer and Pete sees the cracks. Under all the makeup and bravado, she’s just a little girl that’s pissed off. A little girl that just insulted his boyfriend.

“Your originality is astounding,” Patrick drawls. He looks bored but the tightness of his hand tells Pete he’s more pissed off than he’s letting on. “You want to be mad at Pete? Go for it. Want to be mad at me? Even better. I was sucking his dick when you were still around and that makes me an asshole. Doesn’t change the fact that you’re a bitch with a superiority complex.”

The streets are empty. There’s no cars, no people around to see everything around him changing at lightning speed. Pete can’t move, can’t do anything but watch the way Patrick’s cheeks heat up under the streetlights. Jeanae swings, aiming at Pete’s face. Before he can move, Patrick steps into it, the slap of her open palm on his cheek lost under the roar of blood in Pete’s ears.

There’s an ugly smear of red over Patrick’s jaw where Jeanae’s nail caught but he just nods and steps back as she turns away from them. He holds onto Pete as they cross the street, doesn’t look back to watch Jeanae sink down and cry. 

Pete’s never been on this side before. He’s never had anyone stick up for him. Not when it mattered. The handprint on Patrick’s face is vivid, meant for Pete. He winces when he smiles and Pete feels his chest go tight. Love, he thinks. It’s a funny feeling.

“Everyone’s going to know,” Pete says, quiet. Patrick shrugs, his smile slowly slipping away.

“I was never the one who cared,” he says.

When they get home Pete collapses onto the couch and breathes in the slightly stale smell of the apartment. It feels huge after living in the van. He can hear the sounds of Patrick locking the door and kicking his shoes off, and then his footsteps head into the kitchen.

A few minutes later there’s a cool, damp glass pressed to his palm. He blinks up at Patrick and is surprised when he sees him holding the last of the rum from their pre-tour party. Patrick takes a drink straight from the bottle, lips curling around it, and slumps down onto the floor limply.

“So,” Patrick says. In the darkness of their front room, his skin looks blue. There’s still blood on his jaw, sticky brown and already flaking.

“Yeah.” Pete knocks his drink back and shakes his head when the aftertaste catches up. It’s been awhile since he’s really had a drink. He hasn’t needed it lately.

They finish the bottle in silence, and when they stumble into bed, Patrick’s wobbling a little. He strips down, ditches everything and waits by the bed, hand on the footboard to keep himself stable. The flush that starts at his face goes all the way down to his underwear.

“This is...” He waves a hand up and down his body. “This is what I’ve got. I don’t—you’re giving up a lot for this.”

Pete shrugs out of his hoodie and shoves his jeans down. He helps Patrick under the cold sheets and shuts the light off. When he crawls into bed, the mattress familiar and comforting beneath him, he curls up around Patrick. He presses a flat palm to the round curve of his belly until Patrick squirms against him.

“You’re more than just this,” he says. He means it, even though the words are lubricated with alcohol. Patrick’s music to his words and quiet to his loud. Patrick’s the good to his fucked up, balances him out like nothing else can.

Pete holds him closer and thinks about Jeanae crying on the sidewalk. He feels ill, the alcohol settling low in his belly as Patrick falls asleep against him. Pete hasn’t taken a sleeping pill in months but he feels like he needs one now, wide awake and without anything like the bouncing, uneven lull of the van to put him to sleep. There’s a world in front of him that’s going to hate him. There’s a world in front of him that’s going to hate Patrick.

Pete unwinds himself from Patrick and tucks his cold pillow into the spot to replace him. He’s got words on his mind and if he waits too long they’ll escape him forever. Patrick presses his face into the pillow, bare back pale in the dim glow from the windows. Pete thinks about people hating him, thinks about people smearing Patrick’s name into the ground and feels his stomach turn.

He can’t find his notebook and his phone is blinking with missed calls that he doesn’t want to look at. He can feel the words sliding away from him one by one, lost in the back of his head as he fumbles through the house. He stumbles around in the dark, searching through their still unpacked bags, but all he manages to find is a Sharpie with the logo worn off, the tip blunted and a little dry.

Pete’s good at improvising. He slides back into the bedroom quietly, taking more care than he really needs to. Patrick sleeps like the dead on most nights without the aid of rum. Still, he’s careful as he rolls Patrick onto his stomach, as he tugs the sheets down until Patrick’s back is completely naked in front of him.

And he writes.

The ink is dark on Patrick’s skin, stands out even in the dark, the sharp angles of Pete’s letters like knives. The words across Patrick’s shoulders are large, sprawling, getting smaller and smaller until he’s cramping them together at the base of Patrick’s spine, letters looping together and becoming garbled.

Patrick will be pissed in the morning, ink smeared on the sheets and bled out onto his cheek, but that’s tomorrow. For now, Pete stares down at his graffiti and thinks about the music they’ll make and the way his heart beats in time to Patrick’s and knows that it won’t matter. That here, with Patrick, is where he’ll always belong.

**Author's Note:**

> This is most likely the last large Bandom piece I'll be writing, and definitely the last go at Bandom Big Bang. Hope you guys enjoyed it, and thank you for the ride.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for Pull Hard and Make a Wish](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5279984) by [coricomile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile)




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